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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALlfORNIA 

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A   VERS    DE    SOCIETE 
ANTHOLOGY 


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AT  a  Jlorist  in  verse,  and  what  zvoii Id  people  say 
If  I  cartie  to  a  banquet  witkout  ?ny  bouquet?  " 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


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Vers  de  Societe 
Anthology 


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Copyright  1007  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  November,  1907 


IV 


NOTE 

A  CKNOWLEDGMENT   is   hereby   gratefully 
/-\    made  to  the  publishers  for  permission  to  use 
poejns  by  the  following  authors : 

To  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company  for 
poems  by  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes,  James  Russell  Lowell,  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier,  Bret  Harte,  John  G.  Saxe,  Norah  Perry, 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  James  T.  Field, 
Edith  Thomas,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  and 
Charles  Henry  Webb. 

To  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company  for  poems 
by  Austin  Dobson. 

To  the  Macmillan  Company  for  poems  by  Lewis 
Carroll. 

To  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  and  Company  for 
"Song,"  by  William  Cullen  Bryant. 

To  The  Century  Company  for  poems  by  Robert 
Underwood  Johnson  and  Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 

To  Messrs.  Little,  Brown  and  Company  for  "A 
Valentine,"  by  Mrs.  Laura  E.  Richards,  and 
"Shadows"  and  "Les  Papillottes,"  by  Gertrude 
Hall. 

To  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  "The  De- 
butante," by  Guy  Wetmore  Carryl. 

To  The  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company  for  poems 
by  Frank  Dempster  Sherman  and  Samuel  Minturn 
Peck. 

To  The  Lothrop,  Lee  and  Shepard  Company 
for  poems  by  Sam  Walter  Foss. 

To  Messrs.  E.  H.  Bacon  and  Company  for  poems 
by  James  Jeffrey  Roche. 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 

To  Celia Ben  Jonson  . 

Cupid Ben  Jonson  .     . 

Rosalind's  Madrigal  ....   Thomas  Lodge  . 
All   Things    Except   Myself    I 

Know Francois  Villon 


John  Lilly     . 

Sir  Philip  Sydney  . 

William  Shakespeare 

William  Shakespeare 
Nicholas  Breton 


Cupid  and  Campaspe      .     . 

A  Ditty 

Song  from  "Twelfth  Night"     . 
Sigh  No  More   (from  "Much 

Ado  About  Nothing")     .     . 
Phillida  and  Corydon       .     . 

Cherry-Ripe Richard  Allison 

Send   Back   My   Long-Stray'd 

Eyes  to  Me John  Donne       . 

Pack  Clouds  Away     ....  Thomas  Heywood 
Shall  I,  Wasting  in  Despair     .  George  Wither    . 
To  the  Virgins  to  Make  Much 

of  Time Robert  Herrick  . 

The  Bracelet     ......  Robert  Herrick  . 

An  Old  Rhyme Anonymous  .     . 

Love    Me    Not    for     Comely 

G^3.ce Anonymous   . 

On  a  Girdle Edmund  Waller 

To  My  Love Sir  John  Suckling 

To  Althea  (From  Prison)    .     .  Richard  Lovelace 

Song Sir  Charles  Sedley 

The  Despairing  Lover    .     .     .  William  Walsh  . 

Cupid  Mistaken Matthew  Prior  . 

[  vii  ] 


PAGE 

xix 

3 
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lO 

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14 

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19 
21 
22 

23 


Contents 


The  Contrast Charles  Morris  .... 

Oh,  Tell  Me  How  to  Woo  Thee  Robert  Graham 

Song  from  "The  Duenna"  .     .  Richard  Br insley  Sheridan 

The  Races George  Ellis 

To  Lady  Anne  Hamilton    .     .  Hon.  William  R.  Spencer 
To  Mrs.  Leigh  Upon  Her  Wed- 
ding Day George  Canning      .     . 

Names Samuel  T.  Coleridge  . 

The  Exchange Samuel  T.  Coleridge  , 

Defiance Walter  Savage  Landor 

Her  Lips Walter  Savage  Landor 

Commination Walter  Savage  Landor 

Margaret  and  Dora    ....  Thomas  Campbell  . 

A  Certain  Young  Lady  .     .     .  Washington  Irving 

Song John  Shaw   . 

The  Time  I've  Lost  in  Wooing  Thomas  Moore 

When  I  Loved  You    ....  Thomas  Moore 

Reason,  Folly  and  Beauty  .     .  Thomas  Moore 

Tiresome  Spring! Beranger  . 

Rosette Beranger  . 

She  Is  So  Pretty Beranger  . 

Rondeau Leigh  Hunt 

Stolen  Fruit Leigh  Hunt 

Love  and  Age Thomas  L.  Peacock 

Clubs Theodore  Hook 

To  Anne William  Maxwell 

Song William  Cullen  Bryant 

What  Is  London's  Last  New 

Lion  ? Thomas  Haynes  Bayly 

I'd  Be  a  Butterfly       ....  Thomas  Haynes  Bayly 
I  Must  Come  Out  Next  Spring  Thomas  Haynes  Bayly 

Why  Don't  the  Men  Propose  ?  .  Thomas  Haynes  Bayly 

Ask  and  Have Samuel  Lover    .     ,     . 

Lines  in  a  Young  Lady's  Al- 
bum        Thomas  Hood  .     .     . 

[  viii  ] 


24 

27 
28 
29 
32 

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59 

60 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  Time  of  Roses    ....   Thomas  Hood   .     .     .     .  62 

Love Thomas  Hood   ....  63 

To  Helen Winthrop  Mackworth 

Praed 64 

The  Belle  of  the  Bali-Room    .  Winthrop  Mackworth 

Pracd 64 

Amy's  Cruelty Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing     68 

Beware! Henry  Wadsworth  Long- 
fellow      yo 

Love  in  a  Cottage      .     .     .     .  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  .  71 

Because Edward  Fitzgerald      .     .  73 

Lilian Aljred  Tennyson    ...  75 

The  Henchman John  Greenleaj  Whittier  .  76 

Dorothy  Q.    A  Family  Portrait  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes   .  78 

A  Reminiscence James  Freeman  Clarke    .  81 

The  Age  of  Wisdom  ....  William  Makepeace 

Thackeray      .     .     .     .  82 
The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse    .  William  Makepeace 

Thackeray      ....  83 

An  Invitation The'ophile  Gautier  ...  86 

Fanny;  or,  The  Beauty  and  the 

Bee Charles  Mackay     ...  88 

Garden  Fancies.    The  Flower's 

Name Robert  Browning    ...  89 

A  Poem  of  Every  Day  Life  .     .  Albert  Riddle      ....  91 
Love  Disposed  Of      ....  Robert  Traill  S pence 

Lowell 93 

Mabel,  in  New  Hampshire      .  James  Thomas  Fields      .  94 

The  Coquette.    A  Portrait  .     .  John  Godfrey  Saxe      .     .  96 

Justine,  You  Love  Me  Not!    .  John  Godfrey  Saxe     .     .  98 

Sing  Heigh-Ho! Charles  Kingsley    ...  99 

Snowdrop William  Wetmore  Story   .  100 

The  Protest James  Russell  Lowell .     .  101 

Scherzo James  Russell  Lowell .     .  loi 

[ix] 


.  Contents 


PAGE 

The  Handsomest  Man  in  the 

Room 

William  Macquorn 

Rankine 

.    102 

The    Lawyer's    Invocation    to 

Spring 

Henry  Howard  Brownell  104 

A  Terrible  Infant 

Frederick  Locker- 

Lamp  son    .     .     . 

•  105 

Loulou  and  Her  Cat       .     .     . 

Frederick  Locker- 

Lampson    . 

.    106 

Piccadilly 

Frederick  Locker- 

Lampson    . 

.    107 

A  Word  that  Makes  Us  Linger  . 

Frederick  Locker- 

.      xv./y 

Lampson    . 

.    100 

My  Mistress's  Boots  .... 

Frederick  Locker- 

.      A\.^y 

Lampson    . 

.  no 

A  Nice  Correspondent!  .     .     . 

Frederick  Locker- 

Lampson    .     .     . 

.     112 

There's  a  Time  to  Be  Jolly  .     . 

Charles  Godfrey  Lei  an 

d   .  114 

I  Remember,  I  Remember 

Phoebe  Cary       .     . 

.  •  "5 

The  Flower  of  Love  Lies  Bleed- 

ing    

Richard  Henry  Stoddard  .   116 

The  Gold  Room.    An  Idyl  .     . 

Bayard  Taylor  . 

.  118 

Comfort 

Mortimer  Collifis 

.  119 

A  Summer  Song 

Mortimer  Collins 

.  120 

My  Aunt's  Spectre     .... 

Mortimer  Collins 

.  121 

A  Conceit 

Mortimer  Collins 

.  122 

Martial  in  London     .... 

Mortimer  Collins 

•  123 

The  Best  of  the  Ball       .     .     . 

William  Sawyer 

•  123 

The    Ballad   of   Dead   Ladies 

(Translation  from   Fran9ois 

Villon,  1450) 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

•     125 

Feminine  Arithmetic       .     .     . 

Charles  Graham  Halp 

ine  127 

A  Trifle 

Henry  Timrod  .     . 

.  128 

Flight 

Charles  S.  Calverley 

.   129 

Love 

Charles  S.  Calverley 

•  13=! 

'  X  ' 

Contents 

PAGE 

Since  We  Parted Owen  Meredith       .     .     .  134 

A  Kiss — By  Mistake       .     .     .  Joel  Benton  .     .     . 

A  Game  of  Fives Lewis  Carroll     .     . 

A  Valentine Lewis  Carroll     .     . 

The  Wedding  Day     ....  Edmund  Clarence 

Stedman    .     .     . 
Edged  Tools Edmund  Clarence 

Stedman    .     .     . 
Witchcraft Edmuftd  Clarence 

Stedman     .     .     . 
Tou jours  Amour Edmund  Clarence 

Stedman    .     .     . 

Dictum  Sapienti Charles  Henry  Webb 

Undowered Harriet  McEwen 

Kimball 

The  Love-Knot Nora  Perry  .     .     . 

Vers  de  Societe H.  D.  Traill      .     . 

A  Letter  of  Advice     ....   Thomas  Hood,  Jr. 

At  the  Lattice Alfred  Austin    .     . 

French  vi^ith  a  Master     .     .     .   Theodore  Tilton 
On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Min- 
erva        Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

The  Lunch Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

The  Witch  in  the  Glass      .     .  Sarah  Morgan  Bryan 

Piatt 

To  Phoebe William  Schwenck  Gilbert 

My  Love  and  My  Heart     .     .  Henry  S.  Leigh 
To  a  Country  Cousin      .     .     .  Heftry  S.  Leigh 

The  Family  Fool William  Schwettck  Gilbert  160 

An  Interlude Algernon  Charles 

Swinburne      .     .     .     .162 
A  Match Algernon  Charles 

Swinburne      ....   165 

Caprice William  Dean  Howell s    .  167 

The  Minuet Mary  Mapes  Dodge    .     .168 

[xi] 


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15s 

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158 


Contents 


A  Street  Sketch J.  Ashby-S terry      . 

Saint  May:  A  City  Lyric     .     .  /.  Ashby-S  terry 

Pet's  Punishment /.  Ashby-S  terry 

Her  Letter Francis  Bret  Harte 

Avice Austin  Dobson  . 


Austin  Dobson  . 
Austin  Dobson  . 
Austin  Dobson  . 
Austin  Dobson  . 
Austin  Dobson  . 
Austin  Dobson  . 
Rossiter  Johnson 


A  Song  of  the  Four  Seasons 

In  Town 

When  I  Saw  You  Last,  Rose 
To  "Lydia  Languish"    .     . 
The  Old  Sedan  Chair     .     . 
"Le  Roman  de  la  Rose"    . 
Ninety-nine  in  the  Shade    . 

Brighton  Pier Clement  Scott 

A  Contradiction Clement  Scott 

Rondel John  Payne  . 

White,  Pillared  Neck      .     .     .  Richard  Watson  Gilder 

Janet Richard  Watson  Gilder 

For  a  Fan Richard  Watson  Gilder 

Ballade  of  Summer    ....  Andrew  Lang    .     . 

Colinette Aiuirew  Lang    .     . 

Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies  (After 

Villon) Andrew  Lang    .     . 

II  Bacio Paul  Verlaine    .     . 

Sur  I'Herbe Paul  Verlaine    .     . 

The  Romance  of  a  Glove   .     .  H.  Savile  Clarke    . 

If James  Jeffrey  Roche 

"Don't" James  Jeffrey  Roche 

On  Rereading  Tel^maque  .     .  James  Jeffrey  Roche 

Valentine James  Jeffrey  Roche 

BLftek  aux  Champignons     .     .  Henry  Augustin  Beers 

An  Explanation Walter  Learned 

Marjorie's  Kisses Walter  Learned 

Miss  Nancy's  Gown  ....  Zitella  Cocke 
"Le  Dernier  Jour  d'un  Con- 

damne" George  A.  Baker 

[xii] 


PAGE 
170 
171 

174 
177 
179 
,  181 
.  183 
,  184 
.  186 
.  188 
.  190 
.  191 
.  192 

•  194 

•  194 

■  19s 

.  196 

.  196 

.  198 

•  199 

.  200 

.  201 

.  202 

•  203 
.  204 

•  205 
.  206 
.  206 
.  209 
.  209 
.  210 

.  212 


Contents 


My  Wooing Edwin  Hamilton    .     .     .213 

Wintry  Paris Anonymous 215 

The  Rose Anonymous 216 

Indecision Anonymous 217 

Logic Anonymous 218 

Conversational Anonymous 219 

If   You    Want   a   Kiss,    Why, 

Take  It Anonymous 220 

Educational  Courtship    .     .     .  Anonymous 221 

Kissing's  No  Sin Anonymous 223 

The  Best  Thing  in  the  World  .  Anonymous 223 

Her  Neighbours Anonymous 224 

To  Celia E.  H.  Lacon  Watson  .     .  225 

In  For  It Somerville  Gihney  .     .     .   225 

Kirtle  Red W.  H.  Bellamy      .     .     .   227 

A  Bagatelle James  G.  Burnett  .     .     .228 

A  Love  Test Carl  Herlozssohn  .     .     .229 

The  Mistaken  Moth  ....  Translated  from  Wegener  229 
My  Pretty  Neighbor  ....  Translated  jrom  Wegener  230 


If H.  C.  Dodge 

To  Mistress  Pyrrha    ....  Eugene  Field 

The  Tea-Gown Eugene  Field 

A  Paraphrase Eugene  Field 

A  Leap- Year  Episode     .     .     .  Eugene  Field 
Ballade  of  Ladies'  Names  .     .  W.  E.  Henley 

Ballade  of  June  ^ W.  E.  Henley 

Ballade     Made    in    the     Hot 

Weather W.  E.  Henley 

A  Rose Arlo  Bates     . 

To  Minnie  (With  a  Hand  Glass)  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
An  American  Girl      ....  Brander  Matthews 
Larks  and  Nightingales       .     .  Nathan  Haskell  Dole 

Caeli Francis  William 

Bourdillon 

Lady  Mine Herbert  Edwin  Clarke 

[  xiii  ] 


231 
232 
232 

234 
236 
236 

237 

238 
240 
241 
241 
242 

244 

244 


Contents 


PAGE 

The  Ripest  Peach  ....  James  Whitcomb  Riley  .  245 
"I  Journeyed  South  to  Meet 

the  Spring" Robert  Underwood 

Johnson 246 

Before  the  Blossom    ....  Robert  Underwood 

Johnson 246 

Love  in  the  Calendar      .     .     .  Robert  Underwood 

Johnson 247 

My    Grandmother's    Turkey- 
Tail  Fan Samuel  Mintiirn  Peck      .   249 

Valentine Edith  Matilda  Thomas    .   250 

A  Valentine Laura  Elizabeth  Richards  251 

On  a  Hymn  Book      .     .     .     .W.J.  Henderson   .     .     .252 
The  Ballade  of  the  Summer- 
Boarder     H.  C.  Bunner   ....   254 

Interesting H.  C.  Bunner   .     .     .     .256 

The  Way  to  Arcady  .     .     .     .  H.  C.  Bunner  .     .     .     .257 

Da  Capo H.  C.  Bunner   ....  260 

The  Maid  of  Murray  Hill  .  .  H.  C.  Bunner  .  .  .  .262 
Kitty's  Summering     .     .     .     .  H.  C.  Bunner   ....  264 

Forfeits H.  C.  Bunner   ....   265 

When  Will  Love  Come?      .     .  Pakenham  Beatty  .     .     .   266 

Heliotrope Harry  Thurston  Peck     .   266 

Borderland Herman  Knickerbocker 

Viele 269 

Epithalamium E.  S.  Martip.     ....   270 

Infirm E.  S.  Martin     ....  273 

Words,  Words,-  Words    .     .     .  Margaret  Deland   .     .     .273 

The  Bluebell Margaret  Deland    .     .     .274 

A  Modern  Martyrdom  .  .  .  Sam  Walter  Foss  .  .  .  275 
A  Corsage  Bouquet  ....  Charles  Henry  Luders  .  277 
The     Ballad     of     Cassandra 

Brown Helen  Gray  Cone  .     .     .   278 

From  Three  Fly  Leaves  .  .  J.  K.  Stephen  .  .  .  .280 
Question  and  Answer     .     .     .  J.  K.  Stephen   .     .     .     .281 

[xiv] 


Contents 


A  Rhyme  for  Priscilla    .     . 

The  Old  Collector      ....  Beatrice  Hanscom 

The  Last  Ditch E.  Nesbit      .     .     . 

Be    Ye    in    Love    with    April- 
Tide      Clinton  Scollard 

Strawberries Clinton  Scollard. 

Applied  Astronomy    ....  Esther  B.  Tiffany  . 

Courtship Frederick  Langhridge 

Eyes  of  Black  and  Eyes  of  Blue 

(from  the  Viceroy)     .     .     .  Harry  B.  Smith     . 

Her   Faults    (from   The   Man- 
darin)    Harry  B.  Smith 

A  Modern  Dialogue  ....  Oliver  Her  ford  . 

The  Poet's  Proposal  ....  Oliver  Herford  . 

Truth Oliver  Herford  . 

The  Bachelor  Girl      ....  Oliver  Herford  . 

The  Sea Eva  L.  Ogden   . 

In  Philistia Bliss  Carman    . 

Between  the  Showers      .     .     .  Amy  Levy     .     . 

Grace's  Choice Charles  Battell  Loomis 

To  Violet.      With  a  Bunch  of 

Namesakes Robert  Cameron  Rogers 

Her  Bonnet Mary  E.  Wilkins   . 

A  Song Norman  R.  Gale    . 

Les  PapUlottes Gertrude  Hall    .     . 

Upon  Graciosa,  Walking  and 

Talking A.  T.  Quiller-Couch 

Her  Valentine Richard  Hovey 

Story  of  the  Gate Harrison  Robertson 

Two  Triolets Harrison  Robertson 

A  Ballade  of  Old  Sweethearts  Richard  Le  Gallienne 

Amour  de  Voyage       ....  Rudyard  Kipling    . 

The  Lover's  Litany    ....  Rudyard  Kipling    . 

A  Lenten  Call Hilda  Johnson  Wise 

Helen's  Face  a  Book      .     .     .  Gelett  Burgess   .     . 

[XV] 


Frank  Dempster  Sherman  283 

285 
288 

289 
290 
291 
292 


293 

29s 
296 
299 
299 
300 
301 
302 
304 
305 

306 

307 
308 

309 

311 
311 
314 
316 

317 
318 

319 
321 
322 


Co  tj  tents 


The  Butterfly's  Madrigal    .     .  Gelett  Burgess   .     .     .     i  323 
Ballade  of  the  Devil-May-Care  Gelett  Burgess   ....  323 
Ballade  of  Dreams  Transposed  Gelett  Burgess   ....  325 
Villanelle  of  His  Lady's  Treas- 
ures       Ernest  Dowson       .     .     .  326 

L'Envoi E.  B.  Reed 327 

A  Merry,  Blue-Eyed  Laddie   .  Juliet   Wilbur   Tompkins  328 
Dance  Time Josephine    Preston    Pea- 
body  Marks    .     .     .     .329 
How  Like  a  Woman       .     .     .  Caroline  and  Alice  Duer  .  330 
A  Vignette Caroline  Duer    .     .     .     .331 

Index  of  Titles 335 

Index  of  Authors 347 


[xvi] 


INTRODUCTION 


[  xvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

ALL  collectors  of  Fcrs  Je  Societe  zgvee  that  there 
^  is  no  possibility  of  an  English  equivalent  for 
the  French  term.     None  exists;  and  the  at- 
tempts  to  coin    one   have    invariably  resulted  in 
failure. 

Society  Verse,  Familiar  Verse  and  Occasional 
Verse  are  all  wide  of  the  mark  in  one  direction  or 
another;  and  perhaps,  after  all,  the  simple  term 
Light  Verse  strikes  nearest  home. 

One  might  suggest  Gentle  Verse,  but  it  w^ould  be 
with  the  restricted  meaning  of  the  adjective  that  is 
applied  to  the  courteous  and  well-bred;  the  innately 
fine,  polished  by  the  experience  and  sophistication 
of  truly  good  society. 

Gentlefolk  are  never  excessive.  Their  enthusi- 
asms are  modified,  their  emotions  are  restrained, 
their  humor  is  delicate.  As  a  result  of  wise  and  in- 
telligent culture,  their  tastes  are  refined,  their  fash- 
ions correct.  They  breathe  the  air  of  polite  worldly 
wisdom,  which  endows  them  with  a  gracious  ease, 
and  removes  all  trace  of  self-consciousness. 

[  xix  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

D'Israeli  says,  "Genius  is  not  always  sufficient 
to  impart  that  grace  of  amenity  which  seems  pe- 
cuHar  to  those  who  are  accustomed  to  elegant  so- 
ciety. 

Gentle  Verse  then,  would  imply  lines  written  of 
the  gentlefolk,  for  the  gentlefolk,  and  by  gentlefolk. 

Society  Verse  is  an  inadequate  term,  because  So- 
ciety has  come  to  include  both  the  gentle  folk  and 
the  others. 

Familiar  Verse,  though  staunchly  defended  by 
one  of  our  foremost  men  of  letters,  allows  a  latitude 
of  informality  that  is  too  liberal  for  a  precise  equiv- 
alent. Occasional  Verse  is  ambiguous,  and  Easy 
Verse,  absurd. 

Lyra  Elegantiarum  is  an  adequate  translation, 
but  not  into  English.  And  none  of  the  graceful 
titles  yet  chosen  by  our  modern  poets  from  "Bright- 
some  Balladry"  to  "Lingerie  de  Poesie"  has  as  yet 
fulfilled  all  requirements. 

Granting  then  that  there  is  no  perfect  English 
translation  of  the  French  phrase,  and  accepting 
Vers  de  Societe  as  our  field,  we  are  again  confronted 
by  great  difficulties  and  embarrassments  in  defining 
its  boundaries. 

One  of  the  greatest  masters  of  the  art,  Mr.  Austin 
Dobson,   gives    us    twelve    definite    rules    for    our 

[xxj 


Introduction 


guidance;  but  of  these,  only  three  refer  to  the 
matter  of  the  poems,  the  others  being  advice  as  to 
manner. 

Though  manner  is  equally  important,  yet  the 
choice  of  matter  for  Vers  de  Societe  depends  upon 
certain  definite  characteristics. 

But  to  limit  these  characteristics  is  to  ask  the 
question,  "who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disa- 
gree?" The  scholarly  gentlemen  who  have  de- 
voted special  attention  to  the  matter,  advance  con- 
flicting opinions. 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson,  doubtless  the  great- 
est master  of  the  art,  both  in  a  critical  and  creative 
way,  allows  wide  latitude  of  discretion.  But  so  in- 
fallible is  his  individual  judgment  and  so  unerring 
his  taste,  that  it  is  with  him,  a  case  of  "  Know  the 
Rules,  and  when  to  break  them." 

He  asserts  that  "  Vers  de  Societe  by  no  means 
need  be  confined  to  topics  of  conventional  life." 

Contradicting  this,  is  the  word  of  W.  Davenport 
Adams,  whose  collection  of  "Songs  of  Society; 
from  Anne  to  Victoria,"  admirably  supplements 
Mr.  Locker-Lampson's  earlier  collection. 

Mr.  Adams  tells  us  that  "  Vers  de  Societe  should 
be  applied  to  the  poetry  of  fashionable  life  alone; 
should  be  limited  to  the  doings  and  sayings  of  the 
world  of  fashion,  and  should  deal  exclusively  with 

[  xxi  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

such  things  as  routs  and  balls,  and  dinners  and  re- 
ceptions." 

Our  own  American  collector,  Mr.  Brander  Mat- 
thews, inclines  to  Mr.  Locker-Lampson's  views,  and 
therefore  prefers  the  term  Familiar  Verse,  as  al- 
lowing excursions  outside  of  Vanity  Fair;  while 
Mr.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  again  narrows  the 
field  by  declaring  in  favor  of  "the  more  select  order 
of  society  verse,"  which  he  designates  "  Patrician 
Rhymes." 

Indeed,  authorities  on  the  subject  of  Fers  de 
Societe  seem  somewhat  in  the  position  of  the  charm- 
ing philosopher  of  Wonderland  fame: 

"'When  /  use  a  word,'  Humpty  Dumpty  said,  in 
rather  a  scornful  tone,  'it  means  just  what  I  choose 
it  to  mean — neither  more  nor  less.' 

'"The  question  is,'  said  Alice,  'whether  you  can 
make  words  mean  so  many  different  things.' 

'"The  question  is,'  said  Humpty  Dumpty, 
'Which  is  to  be  the  master — that's  all.'" 

But  though  there  is  variance  of  opinion  concern- 
ing the  limits  of  the  field,  there  is  harmony  of  con- 
viction regarding  the  intrinsic  qualities  of  Vers  de 
Societe. 

Mr,  Locker-Lampson   directs  us  that  it   should 

[  xxii  ] 


Introduction 


be  "short,  graceful,  refined,  and  fanciful,  not  sel- 
dom distinguished  by  chastened  sentiment,  and 
often  playful.  The  tone  should  not  be  pitched  high ; 
it  should  be  terse  and  idiomatic,  and  rather  in  the 
conversational  key;  the  rhythm  should  be  crisp  and 
sparkling,  and  the  rhyme  frequent  and  never  forced. 
The  entire  poem  should  be  marked  by  tasteful  mod- 
eration, high  finish  and  completeness;  for  subordi- 
nation to  the  rules  of  composition,  and  perfection  of 
execution  are  of  the  utmost  importance. 

The  qualities  of  brevity  and  buoyancy  are  abso- 
lutely essential.  The  poem  may  be  tinctured  w^ith 
a  well-bred  philosophy,  it  may  be  whimsically  sad, 
it  may  be  gay  and  gallant,  it  may  be  playfully  ma- 
licious or  tenderly  ironical,  it  may  display  lively 
banter,  and  it  may  be  satirically  facetious;  it 
may  even,  considering  it  merely  as  a  work  of  art, 
be  pagan  in  its  philosophy  or  trifling  in  its  tone, 
but  it  must  never  be  flat,  or  ponderous,  or  com- 
monplace." 

The  remarks  of  Mr.  W.  Davenport  Adams  are 
much  in  the  same  line.  He  says,  "There  should 
be  little  or  no  enthusiasm:  the  Muse  should  not  be 
over-earnest,  nor  need  it  by  any  means  be  over- 
flippant.  It  is  essential  to  'Society  verse'  that  it 
should  have  the  tincture  of  good-breeding;^ — ^that 
if  it  is  lively,  it  should  be  so  without  being  vulgar; 

[  xxiii  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

and  that  if  it  is  tender  it  should  be  so  without  being 
maudlin.  Its  great  distinction  should  be  ease— 
the -entire  absence  of  apparent  effort — the  presence 
of  that  playful  spontaneity  which  proclaims  the 
master." 

Professor  Brander  Matthews,  in  his  able  essay 
on  the  subject,  agrees  in  general  to  all  these  stipula- 
tions, and  observes:  "No  doubt,  Social  verse  should 
have  polish,  and  finish,  and  the  well-bred  ease  of 
the  man  of  the  world;  but  it  ought  also  to  carry,  at 
least  a  suggestion  of  the  more  serious  aspects  of 
life.  It  should  not  be  frothily  frivolous  or  coldly 
cynical,  any  more  than  it  should  be  broadly  comic 
or  boisterously  funny.  It  is  at  liberty  to  hint  at 
hidden  tears,  even  when  it  seems  to  be  wreathed  in 
smiles.  It  has* no  right  to  parade  mere  cleverness; 
and  it  must  shun  all  affectation  as  it  must  .avoid  all 
self-consciousness.  It  should  appear  to  possess  a 
colloquial  carelessness  which  is  ever  shrinking  from 
the  commonplace  and  which  has  succeeded  in  con- 
cealing every  trace  of  that  labor  of  the  literary  artist 
by  which  alone  it  has  attained  their  seemingly  spon- 
taneous perfection.  ...  It  must  eschew  not  merely 
coarseness  or  vulgarity,  but  even  free  and  hearty 
laughter;  and  it  must  refrain  from  dealing  not  only 
with  the  soul-plumbing  abysses  of  the  tragic,  but 
even  with  the  ground-swell  of  any  sweeping  emo- 

[  xxiv  ] 


I  ntroduction 


tion.  It  must  keep  on  the  crest  of  the  wave,  mid- 
way between  the  utter  triviaUty  of  the  murmuring 
shadows  and  the  silent  profundity  of  the  depths  that 
are  dumb." 

Mr.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman's  views  coincide 
with  those  above  quoted,  and  are  thus  briefly 
summed  up:  "In  fine,  the  true  kind  is  marked  by 
humor,  by  spontaneity,  joined  with  extreme  ele- 
gance of  finish,  by  the  quality  we  call  breeding,— 
above  all,  by  lightness  of  touch." 

These  same  authorities  agree  that  not  every  poet 
may  write  Vers  de  Societe.  To  quote  Mr.  Locker- 
Lampson :  "  The  writer  of  Occasional  verse,  in  order 
to  be  genuinely  successful,  must  not  only  be  some- 
thing of  a  poet,  but  he  must  also  be  a  man  of  the 
world,  in  the  liberal  sense  of  the  expression;  he  must 
have  associated  throughout  his  life  with  the  re- 
fined and  cultivated  members  of  his  species,  not 
merely  as  an  idle  bystander,  but  as  a  busy  actor  in 
the  throng." 

Mr.  Adams  corroborates  this  by  saying:  "Al- 
though a  clever  literary  artist  may  so  far  throw  him- 
self into  the  position  of  a  man  of  society  as  to  be 
able  to  write  very  agreeable  Society  verse,  yet  few 
can  hope  to  write  the  best  and  most  genuine  Vers 
de  Societe  who  are  not,  or  have  not  at  one  time  been, 

[xxv] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Antholo 


gy 


in  some  measure  at  any  rate,  inhabitants  of  *So- 
ciety. 

As  an  instance,  however,  of  the  disagreement 
among  the  doctors,  the  following  may  be  noted: 

Mortimer  Collins,  himself  a  writer  of  Fers  de 
Societe,  declared  that  the  lines  by  Ben  Jonson,  be- 
ginning, 

"Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you;" 

is  the  most  perfect  bit  of  society  verse  written  in  our 
language.  And  speaking  of  the  same  poem,  Mr. 
W.  Davenport  Adams  says,  "I  cannot  bring  myself 
to  look  upon  Ben  Jonson  as  a  'society  poet,'  or  upon 
the  verses  in  question  as  a  'society  poem'  in  the 
proper  sense  of  the  term — in  the  sense  at  least,  in 
which  I  understand  them." 

So  we  see,  that  in  a  degree,  at  least,  Vers  de  So- 
ciete is,  like  Beauty,  in  the  eye  of  the  beholder. 

But  a  consensus  of  opinion  seems  to  prove  that 
the  keynote  of  Vers  de  Societe  is  lightness,  both  of 
theme  and  treatment.  Yet  though  light,  it  must 
not  be  trashy.  It  is  the  lightness  of  beaten  gold- 
leaf,  not  the  lightness  of  chafF.  It  is  valuable,  not 
worthless. 

The  spirit  of  the  work  depends  on  an  instant  per- 

[  xxvi ] 


Introduction 


ception    and   a   fine   appreciation   of  values,   seen 
through  the  medium  of  a  whimsical  kindliness. 

Let  this  be  expressed  with  perfect  taste  and  skill, 
and  with  a  courtly  sense  of  humor,  and  the  result 
may  be  classed  among  those  immortal  ephemerae 
which  we  call  Fers  de  Societe. 


[  XXV  ii  ] 


A   VERS   DE   SOCIETE 
ANTHOLOGY 


[I] 


A  Vers  de  Societe 
Anthology 


TO  CELIA 

DRINK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 
And  I'll  not  ask  for  wine. 

The  thirst,  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sip, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee,  late,  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee, 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 

But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear. 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

Ben  fonson. 

[3] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


CUPID 

BEAUTIES,  have  you  seen  this  toy, 
Called  love,  a  little  boy, 
Almost  naked,  wanton,  blind, 
Cruel  now,  and  then  as  kind  ? 
If  he  be  amongst  ye,  say! 
He  is  Venus'  runaway. 

He  hath  of  marks  about  him  plenty; 
Ye  shall  know  him  among  twenty; 
All  his  body  is  a  fire. 
And  his  breath  a  flame  entire, 
That,  being  shot  like  lightning  in, 
Wounds  the  heart,  but  not  the  skin. 

He  doth  bear  a  golden  bow, 
And  a  quiver,  hanging  low. 
Full  of  arrows,  that  outbrave 
Dian's  shafts,  where,  if  he  have 
Any  head  more  sharp  than  other, 
With  that  first  he  strikes  his  mother. 

Trust  him  not:    his  words,  though  sweet, 

Seldom  with  his  heart  do  meet; 

All  his  practice  is  deceit, 

Every  gift  is  but  a  bait; 

Not  a  kiss  but  poison  bears. 

And  most  treason  in  his  tears. 

[4] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

If  by  these  ye  please  to  know  him, 
Beauties,  be  not  nice,  but  show  him, 
Though  ye  had  a  will  to  hide  him. 
Now,  we  hope,  ye'll  not  abide  him, 
Since  ye  hear  his  falser  play. 
And  that  he's  Venus'  runaway. 


Ben  J. 


onson. 


ROSALIND'S  MADRIGAL 

LOVE  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee 
.         Doth  suck  his  sweet: 

Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me. 
Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast: 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast. 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest. 
Ah,  wanton,  will  ye  ? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 

With  pretty  flight. 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 

The  live-long  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string, 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing, 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing: 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting: 

Whist,  wanton,  still  ye! 

[5] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence: 
And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 

For  your  offence. 
I'll  shut  mine  eyes  to  keep  you  in, 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin, 
I'll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin; 
Alas,  what  hereby  shall  I  win, 

If  he  gainsay  me  ? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod  ? 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 

Because  a  god. 
Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee. 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be; 
Lurk  in  my  eyes  I  like  of  thee: 
O,  Cupid  so  thou  pity  me, 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee. 

Thomas  Lodge. 


ALL  THINGS  EXCEPT  MYSELF  I  KNOW 

I    KNOW  when  milk  does  flies  contain; 
I  know  men  by  their  bravery; 
I  know  fair  days  from  storm  and  rain; 
And  what  fruit  apple-trees  supply; 
And  from  their  gums  the  trees  descry; 
I  know  when  all  things  smoothly  flow; 

I  know  who  toil  or  idle  lie; 
All  things  except  myself  I  know. 

[6] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

I  know  the  doublet  by  the  grain; 

The  monk  beneath  the  hood  can  spy; 
Master  from  man  can  ascertain; 

I  know  the  nun's  veiled  modesty; 

I  know  when  sportsmen  fables  ply; 
Know  fools  who  scream  and  dainties  stow; 

Wine  from  the  butt  I   certify; 
All  things  except  myself  I  know. 

Know  horse  from  mule  by  tail  and  mane; 

I  know  their  worth  or  high  or  low; 
Bell,  Beatrice,  I  know  the  twain; 

I  know  each  chance  of  cards  and  die; 

I  know  what  visions  prophesy, 
Bohemian  heresies,  I  trow; 

I  know  men  of  each  quality; 
All  things  except  myself  I  know. 

ENVOY 

Prince,  I  know  all  things  'neath  the  sky, 
Pale  cheeks  from  those  of  rosy  glow; 

I  know  death  whence  can  no  man  fly; 
All  things  except  myself  I  know. 

Francois    Villon. 


[7] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


CUPID  AND  CAMPASPE 

CUPID  and  my  Campaspe  played 
At  cards  for  kisses;    Cupid  paid. 
He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows, 
His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows; 
Loses  them  too;    then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 
Growing  on  his  cheek,  but  none  knows  how; 
With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow. 
And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin: — ■ 
All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 
At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes; 
She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 
O  Love!  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 
What  shall,  alas,  become  of  me!  John  Lilly. 

A  DITTY 

MY  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 
By  just  exchange  one  to  the  other  given: 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss. 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven: 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one. 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides: 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides: 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

[8] 


A   Vers,  de  Societe  Antholo 


gy 


SONG  FROM  "TWELFTH  NIGHT" 

O  MISTRESS  mine!  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
O!  stay  and  hear;  your  true  love's  coming, 
That  can  sing  both  high  and  low: 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?    'tis  not  hereafter: 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

William  Shakespeare. 


SIGH  NO  MORE 

{From  "Much  Ado  About  Nothing'') 

SIGH  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 
Men  were  deceivers  ever; 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore, 
To  one  thing  constant  never; 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go. 
And  be  you   blithe  and  bonny; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into  hey  nonny,  nonny. 

[9] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A  nthology 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  more, 

Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy; 
The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 
Since  summer  first  was  leavy: 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go, 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into  hey  nonny,  nonny. 

William  Shakespeare 


PHILLIDA  AND  CORYDON 

IN  the  merry  month  of  May, 
In  a  morn  by  break  of  day, 
With  a  troop  of  damsels  playing 
Forth  I  rode,  forsooth,  a-maying. 
When  anon  by  a  woodside. 
Where  as  May  was  in  his  pride, 
I  espied,  all  alone, 
Phillida  and  Corydon. 

Much  ado  there  was,  God  wot! 
He  would  love,  and  she  would  not: 
She  said,  never  man  was  true: 
He  says,  none  was  false  to  you. 
He  said,  he  had  loved  her  long: 
She  says,  Love  should  have  no  wrong. 
[lo] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Corydon  would  kiss  her  then, 
She  says,  maids  must  kiss  no  men, 
Till  they  do  for  good  and  all. 
Then  she  made  the  shepherd  call 
All  the  heavens  to  witness,  truth 
Never  loved  a  truer  youth. 

Thus,  with  many  a  pretty  oath. 
Yea,  and  nay,  and  faith  and  troth! — 
Such  as  silly  shepherds  use 
When  they  will  not  love  abuse; 
Love,  which  had  been  long  deluded, 
Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded: 
And  Phillida,  with  garlands  gay, 
Was  made  the  lady  of  the  May. 

Nicholas  Breton. 

CHERRY-RIPE 

THERE  is  a  garden  in  her  face 
Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow; 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place. 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow; 
There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 
Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  Orient  pearl  a  double  row. 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows. 

They  look  like  rose-buds  fill'd  with  snow; 
Yet  them  no  peer  or  prince  may  buy, 
Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threat'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 

All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 
These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, — 
Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry! 

Richard  Allison. 

SEND  BACK  MY  LONG-STRAY'D  EYES 

TO  ME 

SEND  back  my  long-stray'd  eyes  to  me, 
Which,  O!  too  long  have  dwelt  on  thee: 
But  if  from  you  they've  learnt  such  ill. 
To  sweetly  smile, 
And  then  beguile. 
Keep  the  deceivers,  keep  them  still. 

Send  home  my  harmless  heart  again. 
Which  no  unworthy  thought  could  stain; 
But  if  it  has  been  taught  by  thine 

To  forfeit  both 

Its  word  and  oath, 
Keep  it,  for  then  'tis  none  of  mine. 

Yet  send  me  back  my  heart  and  eyes, 

For  I'll  know  all  thy  falsities; 

That  I  one  day  may  laugh,  when  thou 

Shalt  grieve  and  mourn — • 

Of  one  the  scorn, 
Who  proves  as  false  as  thou  art  now. 

"John  Donne. 

[12] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Antholo 


gy 


PACK  CLOUDS  AWAY 

PACK  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow: 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft,  mount,  lark,  aloft, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing!    nightingale  sing! 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin-redbreast! 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow, 
And  from  each  bill  let  music  shrill 
Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow! 
Blackbird  and  thrush,  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow. 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves, 
Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow. 

Thomas  Heywood. 


[13] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


SHALL  I,  WASTING  IN  DESPAIR 

HALL  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair  ? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheek  with  care, 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me. 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be! 

• 

Should  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 

'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ? 

Or  a  well  disposed  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature  ? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 

Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be! 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or,  her  merit's  value  known, 
Make  me  quite  forget  my  own  ? 
Be  sure  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her  name  of  best, 
If  she  seem  not  such  to  me. 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be! 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind, 
Where  they  want  of  richness  find, 
Think  what  with  them  they  would  do 
Who,  without  them,  dare  to  woo — 
And,  unless  that  mind  I  see. 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be! 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 

I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair: 

If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 

I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve: 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 

I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go: 
For,  if  she  be  not  for  me. 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be! 

George  Wither. 


TO  THE  VIRGINS  TO  MAKE  MUCH 
OF  TIME 

GATHER  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may, 
Old  Time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 
To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  Sun, 

The  higher  he's  a  getting. 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

[15] 


A   Vers  de  Soctete  Anthology 

That  age  is  best,  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 

And  while  you  may,  go  marry: 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 

You  may  forever  tarry. 

Robert  Herrick. 


W 


THE  BRACELET 

HEN  I  tie  about  thy  wrist, 
Julia,  this  my  silken  twist, 
For  what  other  reason  is't 


But  to  show  thee  how,  in  part. 

Thou  my  pretty  captive  art  ? 

— But  thy  bond-slave  is  my  heart. 

'Tis  but  silk  that  bindeth  thee. 
Snap  the  thread,  and  thou  art  free; 
But  'tis  otherwise  with  me: 

I  am  bound,  and  fast  bound,  so 
That  from  thee  I  cannot  go: 
If  I  could  I  would  not  so! 

Robert  Herrick. 
[i6] 


A   Vers  de  Socieie  Antholo 


gy 


AN  OLD  RHYME 

1DARE  not  ask  a  kisse, 
I  dare  not  beg  a  smile, 
Lest  having  that  or  this, 
I  might  grow  proud  the  while. 
No,  no,  the  utmost  share 

Of  my  desire  shall  be 
Only  to  kisse  the  aire 
That  lately  kissed  thee. 


Anonymous. 


LOVE  ME  NOT  FOR  COMELY  GRACE 

10VE  me  not  for  comely  grace, 
_j     For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part. 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart; 
For  those  may  fail  or  turn  to  ill. 
So  thou  and  I  shall  sever: 
Keep  therefore  a  true  woman's  eye. 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why. 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  dote  upon  me  ever. 

Anonymous. 


[17] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


ON  A  GIRDLE 

THAT  which  her  slender  waist  confined, 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  dear. 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move! 

A  narrow  compass!    and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair; 
Give  me  but  what  this  riband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

Edmund  Waller. 


I 


TO  MY  LOVE 

PR'YTHEE  send  me  back  my  heart, 
Since  I  can  not  have  thine; 
For  if  from  yours  you  will  not  part, 
Why  then  should'st  thou  have  mine  1 


Yet  now  I  think  on't,  let  it  lie; 

To  find  it,  were  in  vain: 
For  thou'st  a  thief  in  either  eye 

Would  steal  it  back  again. 
[i8] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Why  should  two  hearts  in  one  breast  lie, 

And  yet  not  lodge  together  ? 
O  love!   where  is  thy  sympathy, 

If  thus  our  breasts  you  sever  ? 

But  love  is  such  a  mystery 

I  can  not  find  it  out; 
For  when  I  think  I'm  best  resolved, 

I  then  am  in  most  doubt. 

Then  farewell  care,  and  farewell  woe, 

I  will  no  longer  pine; 
For  I'll  believe  I  have  her  heart, 

As  much  as  she  has  mine. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 


TO  ALTHEA  (FROM  PRISON) 

WHEN  Love  with  unconfined  wings 
Hovers  v/ithin  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 
To  whisper  at  the  grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair. 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

[19] 


A   Vers  de  S octet e  A nthology 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free. 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnets,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty. 

And  glories  of  my  King; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be. 
Enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make. 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage: 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love. 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Richard  Lovelace. 


[20] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


SONG 

HEARS  not  my  Phyllis  how  the  birds 
Their  feathered  mates  salute  ? 
They  tell  their  passion  in  their  words; 
Must  I  alone  be  mute  ? 
Phyllis,  without  frown  or  smile, 
Sat  and  knotted  all  the  while. 

The  god  of  love  in  thy  bright  eyes 

Does  like  a  tyrant  reign; 
But  in  thy  heart  a  child  he  lies, 

Without  his  dart  or  flame. 
Phyllis  without  frown  or  smile, 
Sat  and  knotted  all  the  while. 

So  many  months  in  silence  past, 

And  yet  in  raging  love. 
Might  well  deserve  one  word  at  last 

My  passion  should  approve. 
Phyllis,  without  frown  or  smile, 
Sat  and  knotted  all  the  while. 

Must  then  your  faithful  swain  expire, 

And  not  one  look  obtain. 
Which  he,  to  soothe  his  fond  desire. 

Might  pleasantly  explain  ? 
Phyllis,  without  frown  or  smile. 
Sat  and  knotted  all  the  while. 

Sir  Charles  Sedley. 

[21] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


THE  DESPAIRING  LOVER 

DISTRACTED  with  care, 
For  Phyllis  the  fair, 
Since  nothing  can  move  her, 
Poor  Damon,  her  lover, 
Resolves  in  despair 
No  longer  to  languish. 
Nor  bear  so  much  anguish; 
But,  mad  with  his  love. 

To  a  precipice  goes. 
Where  a  leap  from  above 
Will  soon  finish  his  woes. 

When,  in  rage,  he  came  there, 

Beholding  how  steep 
The  sides  did  appear. 

And  the  bottom  how  deep; 
His  torments  projecting. 
And  sadly  reflecting 
That  a  lover  forsaken 

A  new  lover  may  get; 
But  a  neck,  when  once  broken, 

Can  never  be  set: 

And  that  he  could  die 

Whenever  he  would; 
But  that  he  could  live 

But  as  long  as  he  could; 
How  grievous  soever 

The  torment  might  grow, 

[22] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

He  scorned  to  endeavour 

To  finish  it  so. 
But  bold,  unconcern'd, 

At  the  thoughts  of  the  pain, 
He  calmly  return'd 

To  his  cottage  again. 

William  Walsh 


CUPID  MISTAKEN 

AS  after  noon,  one  summer's  day, 
h\  Venus  stood  bathing  in  a  river; 

Cupid  a-shooting  went  that  way, 
New  strung  his  bow,  new  fiU'd  his  quiver 

With  skill  he  chose  his  sharpest  dart: 
With  all  his  might  his  bow  he  drew: 

Swift  to  his  beauteous  parent's  heart 
The  too-well-guided  arrow  flew. 

"I  faint!  I  die!"  the  goddess  cried: 
"O  cruel,  could'st  thou  find  none  other 

To  wreak  thy  spleen  on:    Parricide! 

Like  Nero,  thou  hast  slain  thy  mother." 

Poor  Cupid,  sobbing,  scarce  could  speak; 

"Indeed,  mama,  I  did  not  know  ye: 
Alas!  how  easy  my  mistake  ? 

I  took  you  for  your  likeness,  Chloe." 

.Matthew  Prior. 

[23] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


THE  CONTRAST 

IN  London  I  never  know  what  I'd  be  at, 
Enraptured   with    this,   and   enchanted   with 
that; 
I'm  wild  with  the  sweets  of  variety's  plan, 
And  Life  seems  a  blessing  too  happy  for  man. 

But  the  Country,  Lord  help  me!    sets  all  matters 

right; 
So  calm  and  composing  from  morning  to  night; 
Oh!    it  settles  the  spirits  when  nothing  is  seen 
But  an  ass  on  a  common,  a  goose  on  a  green. 

In  town  if  it  rain,  why  it  damps  not  our  hope. 
The  eye  has  her  choice,  and  the  fancy  her  scope 
What  harm  though  it  pour  whole  nights  or  whole 

days  ? 
It  spoils  not  our  prospects,  or  stops  not  our  ways. 

In  the  country  what  bliss,  when  it  rains  in  the 

fields. 
To  live  on  the  transports  that  shuttlecock  yields; 
Or  go  crawling  from  window  to  window,  to  see 
A  pig  on  a  dung-hill,  or  crow  on  a  tree. 

In  London  if  folks  ill  together  are  put, 
A  bow  may  be  dropt,  and  a  quiz  may  be  cut; 
We  change  without  end;   and  if  lazy  or  ill, 
All  wants  are  at  hand,  and  all  wishes  at  will. 

[24] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

In  the  country  you're  nall'd,  like  a  pale  in  the  park, 
To  some  stick  of  a  neighbour  that's  cramm'd  in 

the  ark; 
And   'tis  odds,   if  you're   hurt,   or  in   fits   tumble 

down, 
You  reach  death  ere  the  doctor  can  reach  you  from 

town. 

In  London  how  easy  we  visit  and  meet. 

Gay  pleasure's  the  theme,  and  sweet  smiles  are  our 

treat; 
Our  morning's  a  round  of  good-humoured  delight, 
And  we  rattle,  in  comfort,  to  pleasure  at  night. 

In  the  country,  how  sprightly!   our  visits  we  make 
Through  ten  miles  of  mud,  for  Formality's  sake; 
With  the  coachman  in  drink,  and  the  moon  in  a 

fog, 
And  no  thought  in  our  head  but  a  ditch  or  a  bog. 

In  London  the  spirits  are  cheerful  and  light, 
All  places  are  gay  and  all  faces  are  bright; 
We've  ever  new  joys,  and  revived  by  each  whim, 
Each  day  on  a  fresh  tide  of  pleasure  we  swim. 

But  how  gay  in  the  country!    what  summer  de- 

To  be  waiting  for  winter  from  morning  to  night! 
Then  the  fret  of  impatience  gives  exquisite  glee 
To  relish  the  sweet  rural  subjects  we  see. 

[25] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

In  town  we've  no  use  for  the  skies  overhead, 
For  when  the  sun  rises  then  we  go  to  bed; 
And  as  to  that  old-fashion'd  virgin  the  moon; 
She  shines  out  of  season,  like  satin  in  June. 

In  the  country  these  planets  delightfully  glare 
Just  to  show  us  the  object  we  want  isn't  there; 
O,  how  cheering  and  gay,  when  their  beauties  arise, 
To  sit  and  gaze  round  with  the  tears  in  one's  eyes! 

But  'tis  in  the  country  alone  we  can  find 
That  happy  resource,  that  relief  of  the  mind, 
When,  drove  to  despair,  our  last  efforts  we  make, 
And  drag  the  old  fish-pond,  for  novelty's  sake: 

Indeed,  I  must  own,   tis  a  pleasure  complete 
To  see  ladies  well  draggled  and  wet  in  their  feet; 
But  what  is  all  that  to  the  transport  we  feel 
When  we  capture,  in  triumph,  two  toads  and  an  eel  ? 

I  have  heard  tho',  that  love  in  a  cottage  is  sweet, 
When  two  hearts  in  one  link  of  soft  sympathy  meet: 
That's  to  come — for  as  yet  I,  alas!  am  a  swain 
Who  require,  I  own  it,  more  links  to  my  chain. 

Your  magpies  and  stock-doves   may  flirt  among 

trees. 
And    chatter   their   transports    in    groves,    if  they 

please: 
But  a  house  is  much  more  to  my  taste  than  a  tree, 
And  for  groves,  O!  a  good  grove  of  chimneys  for  me. 

[26] 


A   Vers  de  S octet e  Anthology 

In  the  country,  if  Cupid  should  find  a  man  out, 
The  poor  tortured  victim  mopes  hopeless  about; 
But  in  London,  thank  Heaven!  our  peace  is  secure, 
Where  for  one  eye  to  kill,  there's  a  thousand  to  cure. 

I  know^  love's  a  devil,  too  subtle  to  spy. 

That  shoots  through  the  soul,  from  the  beam  of 

an  eye; 
But  in  London  these  devils  so  quick  fly  about, 
That  a  new^  devil  still  drives  an  old  devil  out. 

In  tov/n  let  me  live  then,  in  town  let  me  die, 
For  in  truth  I  can't  relish  the  country,  not  I. 
If  one  must  have  a  villa  in  summer  to  dvv^ell, 
O,  give  me  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall! 

Charles  Morns. 


OH,  TELL  ME  HOW  TO  WOO  THEE 

IF  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please. 
Right  soon  I'll  mount  my  steed; 
And  strong  his  arm,  and  fast  his  seat, 
That  bears  frae  me  the  meed. 
I'll  wear  thy  colors  in  my  cap, 

Thy  picture  in  my  heart; 
And  he  that  bends  not  to  tliine  eye 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart. 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  love; 

Oh,  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee! 
For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take, 
Though  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

[27] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye, 

I'll  dight  me  in  array; 
I'll  tend  thy  chamber  door  all  night, 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 
If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear, 

These  sounds  I'll  strive  to  catch; 
Thy  voice  I'll  steal  to  woo  thysel' — 

That  voice  that  none  can  match. 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  love,  etc. 

But  if  fond  love  thy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow; 
Nae  maiden  lays  her  skaith  to  me; 

I  never  loved  but  you. 
For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue; 
For  you  alone  I  strive  to  sing — 

Oh,  tell  me  how  to  woo! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  love,  etc. 

Robert  Graham. 


SONG  FROM  "THE  DUENNA" 

I  NE'ER  could  any  lustre  see 
In  eyes  that  would  not  look  on  me; 
I  ne'er  saw  nectar  on  a  lip, 
But  where  my  own  did  hope  to  sip. 
Has  the  maid  who  seeks  my  heart 
Cheeks  of  rose,  untouched  by  art  ? 
I  will  own  thy  color  true. 
When  yielding  blushes  aid  their  hue. 
[28] 


I 
( 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 

Is  her  hand  so  soft  and  pure  ? 
I  must  press  it,  to  be  sure; 
Nor  can  I  be  certain  then, 
Till  it,  grateful,  press  again. 
Must  I,  with  attentive  eye, 
Watch  her  heaving  bosom  sigh  ? 
I  will  do  so  when  I  see 
That  heaving  bosom  sigh  for  me. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 


THE  RACES 


A    BALLAD 


O  GEORGE!    I've  been,  I'll  tell  you  where, 
But  first  prepare  yourself  for  raptures; 
To  paint  this  charming  heavenly  fair, 
And  paint  her  well,  would  ask  whole  chapters. 

Fine  creatures  I've  viewed  many  a  one, 
With  lovely  shapes  and  angel  faces. 

But  I  have  seen  them  all  outdone 
By  this  sweet  maid,  at Races. 

Lords,  Commoners,  alike  she  rules, 
Takes  all  who  view  her  by  surprise. 

Makes  e'en  the  wisest  look  like  fools, 
Nay  more,  makes  fox-hunters  look  wise. 

[29] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Her  shape — -'tis  elegance  and  ease, 
Unspoiled  by  art  or  modern  dress, 

But  gently  tapering  by  degrees, 
And  finely,  "beautifully  less." 

Her  foot — it  was  so  wondrous  small, 
So  thin,  so  round,  so  slim,  so  neat. 

The  buckle  fairly  hid  it  all, 

And  seemed  to  sink  it  with  the  weight. 

And  just  above  the  spangled  shoe. 
Where  many  an  eye  did  often  glance. 

Sweetly  retiring  from  the  view. 

And  seen  by  stealth,  and  seen  by  chance; 

Two  slender  ankles  peeping  out, 

Stood  like  Love's  heralds,  to  declare, 

That  all  within  the  petticoat 

Was  firm  and  full,  and  "round,  and  fair." 

And  then  she  dances — better  far 

Than  heart  can  think,  or  tongue  can  tell, 

Not  Heinel,  Banti,  or  Guimar, 

E'er  moved  so  graceful  and  so  well. 

So  easy  glide  her  beauteous  limbs. 

True  as  the  echo  to  the  sound. 
She  seems,  as  through  the  dance  she  skims, 

To  tread  on  air,  and  scorn  the  ground. 

[30] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

And  there  is  lightning  in  her  eye, 
One  glance  alone  might  well  inspire 

The  clay-cold  breast  of  Apathy, 
Or  bid  the  frozen  heart  catch  fire. 


And  zephyr  on  her  lovely  lips 

Has  spread  his  choicest,  sweetest  roses, 

And  there  his  heavenly  nectar  sips, 
And  there  in  breathing  sweet  reposes. 

And  there's  such  music  when  she  speaks, 
You  may  believe  me  when  I  tell  ye, 

I'd  rather  hear  her  than  the  squeaks 
Or  far  famed  squalls  of  Gabrielli. 

And  sparkling  wit  and  steady  sense, 

In  that  fair  form  with  beauty  vie. 
But  tinged  with  virgin  difiidence, 

And  the  soft  blush  of  modesty. 

Had  I  the  treasures  of  the  world. 
All  the  sun  views  or  the  seas  borrow 

(Else  may  I  to  the  devil  be  hurled), 
I'd  lay  them  at  her  feet  to-morrow. 

But  as  we  Bards  reap  only  Bays, 

Nor  much  of  that,  though  nought  grows  on  it, 
I'll  beat  my  brains  to  sound  her  praise, 

And  hammer  them  into  a  sonnet. 

[3^  1 


A  Vers  de  Socictc  A nthology 

And  if  she  deign  one  charming  smile 
The  blest  reward  of  all  my  labours, 

I'll  never  grudge  my  pains  or  toil, 

But  pity  the  dull  squires,  my  neighbours. 

George  Ellis. 


TO  LADY  ANNE  HAMILTON 

TOO  late  I  stayed,  forgive  the  crime, — 
Unheeded  flew  the  hours; 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 
That  only  treads  on  flowers! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  his  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass  ? 

Ah!   who  to  sober  measurement 

Time's  happy  swiftness  brings. 
When  birds  of  paradise  have  lent 

Their  plumage  for  his  wings  ? 

Hon.  William  R.  Spencer. 


[32] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


TO  MRS.  LEIGH  UPON  HER 
WEDDING-DAY 

WHILE  all  to  this  auspicious  day 
Well  pleased  their  heartfelt  homage  pay 
And  sweetly  smile  and  softly  say 
A  hundred  civic  speeches; 
My  Muse  shall  strike  her  tuneful  strings, 
Nor  scorn  the  gift  her  duty  brings, 
Tho'  humble  be  the  theme  she  sintrs, — • 
A  pair  of  shooting  breeches. 

Soon  shall  the  tailor's  subtle  art 

Have  made  them  tight,  and  spruce,  and  smart, 

And  fastened  vi^ell  in  every  part 

With  twenty  thousand  stitches; 
Mark  then  the  moral  of  my  song. 
Oh,  may  your  lives  but  prove  as  strong, 
And  wear  as  well,  and  last  as  long. 

As  these,  my  shooting  breeches. 

And  when,  to  ease  the  load  of  life, 
Of  private  care,  and  public  strife. 
My  lot  shall  give  to  me  a  wife, 

I  ask  not  rank  or  riches; 
For  worth  like  thine  alone  I  pray. 
Temper  like  thine  serene  and  gay. 
And  formed  like  thee  to  give  away, 

Not  wear  herself,  the  breeches. 

George  Canning. 
[33] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


NAMES 

I  ASKED  my  fair,  one  happy  day, 
What  I  should  call  her  in  my  lay; 
By  what  sweet  name  from  Rome  or  Greece 
Lalage,  Neaera,  Chloris, 
Sappho,  Lesbia,  or  Doris, 
Arethusa  or  Lucrece. 

Ah!"  replied  my  gentle  fair. 
Beloved,  what  are  names  but  air? 

Choose  you  whatever  suits  the  line; 
Call  me  Daphne,  call  me  Chloris, 
Call  me  Lalage  or  Doris, 

Only,  only  call  me  thine." 

Samuel  T.  Ccleridge. 


THE  EXCHANGE 

WE  pledged  our  hearts,  my  love  and  I, — 
I  in  my  arms  the  maiden  clasping: 
I  could  not  tell  the  reason  why. 
But  oh!    I  trembled  like  an  aspen. 

Her  father's  love  she  bade  me  gain; 

I  went,  and  shook  like  any  reed! 
I  strove  to  act  the  man  in  vain! 

We  had  exchanged  our  hearts  indeed. 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge. 

[34] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


DEFIANCE 

CATCH  her  and  hold  her  if  you  can  .  .  . 
See,  she  defies  you  with  her  fan, 
Shuts,  opens,  and  then  holds  it  spread 
In  threatening  guise  above  your  head. 
Ah!    why  did  you  not  start  before 
She  reached  the  porch  and  closed  the  door  ? 
Simpleton!    will  you  never  learn 
That  girls  and  time  will* not  return; 
Of  each  you  should  have  made  the  most; 
Once  gone,  they  are  forever  lost. 
In  vain  your  knuckles  knock  your  brow, 
In  vain  will  you  remember  how 
Like  a  slim  brook  the  gamesome  maid 
Sparkled,  and  ran  into  the  shade. 

Walter  Savar^e  Landor. 


<b 


HER  LIPS 

OFTEN  I  have  heard  it  said 
That  her  lips  are  ruby-red. 
Little  heed  I  what  they  say, 
I  have  seen  as  red  as  they. 
Ere  she  smiled  on  other  men, 
Real  rubies  were  they  then. 

When  she  kiss'd  me  once  in  play. 
Rubies  were  less  bright  than  they, 
And  Igss  bright  were  those  that  shone 

[35] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

In  the  palace  of  the  Sun. 
Will  they  be  as  bright  again  ? 
Not  if  kiss'd  by  other  men. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 

COMMINATION 

TAKING  my  walk  the  other  day, 
I  saw  a  little  girl  at  play, 
So  pretty,  'twould  not  be  amiss, 
Thought  I,  to  venture  on  a  kiss. 
Fiercely  the  little  girl  began — ■ 
"  I  wonder  at  you,  nasty  man!" 
And  all  four  fingers  were  applied. 
And  crimson  pinafore  beside. 
To  wipe  what  venom  might  remain, — 
"  Do  if  you  dare  the  like  again; 
I  have  a  mind  to  teach  you  better," 
And  I  too  had  a  mind  to  let  her. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


MARGARET  AND  DORA 

ARGARET'S  beauteous— Grecian  arts 
Ne'er  drew  form  completer. 
Yet  why,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
Hold  I  Dora's  sweeter? 


M 


Dora's  eyes  of  heavenly  blue 
Pass  all  paintings'  reach. 

Ringdove's  notes  are  discord  to 
The  music  of  her  speech. 

[36] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Artists  Margaret's  smile  receive, 

And  on  canvas  show  it; 
But  for  perfect  worship  leave 

Dora  to  her  poet. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


A  CERTAIN  YOUNG  LADY 

THERE'S  a  certain  young  lady, 
Who's  just  in  her  heyday, 

And  full  of  all  mischief,  I  ween; 
So  teasing!    so  pleasing! 
Capricious!  delicious! 
And  you  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

With  an  eye  dark  as  night. 
Yet  than  noonday  more  bright. 
Was  ever  a  black  eye  so  keen  ? 
It  can  thrill  with  a  glance. 
With  a  beam  can  entrance, 
And  you  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

With  a  stately  step — such  as 
You'd  expect  in  a  duchess — 

And  a  brow  might  distinguish  a  queen, 
With  a  mighty  proud  air, 
That  says  "touch  me  who  dare," 
And  you  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

[37] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

With  a  toss  of  the  head 
That  strikes  one  quite  dead, 

But  a  smile  to  revive  one  again; 
That  toss  so  appalhng! 
That  smile  so  enthralling! 
And  you  know^  very  v^ell  whom  I  mean. 

Confound  her!    devil  take  her! — • 
A  cruel  heart-breaker — 

But  hold!    see  that  smile  so  serene. 
God  love  her!    God  bless  her! 
May  nothing  distress  her! 
You  knov/  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

Heaven  help  the  adorer 
Who  happens  to  bore  her, 

The  lover  who  wakens  her  spleen; 
But  too  blest  for  a  sinner 
Is  he  who  shall  win  her, 
And  you  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

Washington  Irving. 


SONG 

WHO  has  robbed  the  ocean  cave. 
To  tinge  thy  lips  with  coral  hue  ? 
Who  from  India's  distant  wave 
For  thee  those  pearly  treasures  drew? 
Who  from  yonder  orient  sky 
Stole  the  morning  of  thine  eye  ? 

[38] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Thousand  charms,  thy  form  to  deck, 
From  sea,  and  earth,  and  air  are  torn; 

Roses  bloom  upon  thy  cheek, 

On  thy  breath  their  fragrance  borne. 

Guard  thy  bosom  from  the  day, 

Lest  thy  snows  should  melt  away. 

But  one  charm  remains  behind. 
Which  mute  earth  can  ne'er  impart; 

Nor  in  ocean  wilt  thou  find. 
Nor  in  the  circling  air,  a  heart. 

Fairest!  wouldst  thou  perfect  be, 

Take,  oh,  take  that  heart  from  me.      John  Shaw. 


THE  TIME  I'VE  LOST  IN  WOOING 

THE  time  I've  lost  in  wooing. 
In  watching  and  pursuing 
The  light  that  lies 
In  woman's  eyes. 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 
Tho'  wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorn'd  the  lore  she  brought  me, 
My  only  books 
Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they  taught  me. 

Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted. 

Like  him  the  sprite 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted. 

[39] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me; 
But  when  the  spell  was  on  me, 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turn'd  away, 
O!  winds  could  not  outrun  me. 

And  are  those  follies  going  ? 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing  ? 
No — vain,  alas!  th'  endeavor 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever; — 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever. 

Thomas  Moore. 


WHEN  I  LOVED  YOU 

WHEN  I  loved  you,  I  can't  but  allow 
I  had  many  an  exquisite  minute; 
But  the  scorn  that  I  feel  for  you  now 
Hath  even  more  luxury  in  it! 

Thus,  whether  we're  on  or  we're  off, 
Some  witchery  seems  to  await  you; 

To  love  you  is  pleasant  enough. 
And  oh!  'tis  delicious  to  hate  you! 

Thomas  Moore. 

[40] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 


REASON,  FOLLY,  AND  BEAUTY 

REASON,  and  Folly,  and  Beauty,  they  say 
Went  on  a  party  of  pleasure  one  day: 
Folly  play'd 
Around  the  maid, 
The  bells  of  his  cap  rang  merrily  out; 
While  reason  took 
To  his  sermon-book — 
O!  which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt, 
Which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt. 

Beauty,  who  likes  to  be  thought  very  sage, 
Turn'd  for  a  moment  to  Reason's  dull  page, 

Till  Folly  said, 

"Look  here,  sweet  maid!" — 
The  sight  of  his  cap  brought  her  back  to  herself. 

While  Reason  read 

His  leaves  of  lead, 
With  no  one  to  mind  him,  poor  sensible  elf! 
No, — no  one  to  mind  him,  poor  sensible  elf! 

Then  Reason  grew  jealous  of  Folly's  gay  cap; 
Had  he  that  on,  he  her  heart  might  entrap— 

"There  it  is," 

Quoth  Folly,  "old  quiz!" 
(Folly  was  always  good-natured,  'tis  said.) 

"Under  the  sun 

There's  no  such  fun. 
As  Reason  witl   my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head, 
Reason  with  my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head!" 

[41] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

But  Reason  the  head-dress  so  awkwardly  wore, 
That  Beauty  now  liked  him  still  less  than  before: 

While  Folly  took 

Old  Reason's  book, 
And  twisted  the  leaves  in  a  cap  of  such  ton. 

That  Beauty  vow'd 

(Tho'  not  aloud) 
She  liked  him  still  better  in  that  than  his  own, 
Yes, — liked  him  still  better  in  that  than  his  own. 

Thomas  Moore. 


TIRESOME  SPRING! 

I  HAVE  watched  her  at  the  window 
Through  long  days  of  snow  and  wind. 
Till  I  learnt  to  love  the  shadow 
That  would  flit  across  her  blind. 
'Twixt  the  lime-tree's  leafless  branches 

In  the  dusk  my  eyes  I'd  strain: 
Now  the  boughs  are  thick  with  foliage, — 
Tiresome  Spring!  you've  come  again! 

Now,  behind  that  screen  of  verdure 

Is  my  angel  lost  to  view; 
And  no  longer  for  the  robins 

Will  her  white  hands  bread-crumbs  strew. 
Never  in  the  frosts  of  winter. 

Did  those  robins  beg  in  vain; 
Now,  alasl    the  snow  has  melted, — 

Tiresome  Spring!  you've  come  again! 

[42] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

'Tis  kind  winter  that  I  wish  for; — 

How  I  long  to  hear  the  hail 
Rattling  on  deserted  pavements, 

Dancing  in  the  stormy  gale! 
For  I  then  could  see  her  windows, 

Watch  my  darling  through  each  pane 
Now  the  lime-trees  are  in  blossom, — 

Tiresome  Spring!  you've  come  again! 

Ber  anger. 


ROSETTE 

YES!  I  know  you're  very  fair; 
And  the  rose-bloom  of  your  cheek. 
And  the  gold-crown  of  your  hair. 
Seem  of  tender  love  to  speak. 
But  to  me  they  speak  in  vain, 
I  am  growing  old,  my  pet — 
Ah,  if  I  could  love  you  now 
As  I  used  to  love  Rosette! 

In  your  carriage  every  day 

I  can  see  you  bow  and  smile; 
Lovers  your  least  word  obey. 

Mistress  you  of  every  wile. 
She  was  poor,  and  went  on  foot. 

Badly  drest,  you  know, — and  yet, — 
Ah!  if  I  could  love  you  now 

As  I  used  to  love  Rosette! 

[43] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

You  are  clever,  and  Well  known 

For  your  wit  so  quick  and  free; — 
Now,  Rosette,  I  blush  to  own, 

Scarcely  knew  her  ABC; 
But  she  had  a  potent  charm 

In  m)'  youth: — ah,  vain  regret! 
If  I  could  but  love  you  now 

As  I  used  to  love  Rosette! 

Beranger. 

SHE  IS  SO  PRETTY 

SHE  is  so  pretty,  the  girl  I  love. 
Her  eyes  are  tender  and  deep  and  blue 
As  the  summer  night  in  the  skies  above, 
As  violets  seen  through  a  mist  of  dew. 
How  can  I  hope,  then,  her  heart  to  gain  ? 
She  is  so  pretty,  and  I  am  so  plain! 

She  is  so  pretty,  so  fair  to  see! 

Scarcely  she's  counted  her  nineteenth  spring. 
Fresh,  and  blooming,  and  young, — ah  me! 

Why  do  I  thus  her  praises  sing  ? 
Surely  from  me  'tis  a  senseless  strain, 
She  is  so  pretty,  and  I  am  so  plain! 

She  is  so  pretty,  so  sweet  and  dear, 

There's  many  a  lover  who  loves  her  well; 

I  may  not  hope,  I  can  only  fear. 

Yet  shall  I  venture  my  love  to  tell  ?  .  .  . 

Ah!  I  have  pleaded,  and  not  in  vain — 

Though  she's  so  pretty,  and  I  am  so  plain. 

Beranger. 

[44] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


RONDEAU 

JENNY  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 
Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in: 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 
Jenny  kissed  me! 

Leigh  Hunt. 


STOLEN  FRUIT 

WE  the  fairies,  bhthe  and  antic, 
Of  dimensions  not  gigantic. 
Though  the  moonshine  mostly  keep  us, 
Oft  in  orchards  frisk  and  peep  us. 

Stolen  sweets  are  always  sweeter, 
Stolen  kisses  much  completer. 
Stolen  looks  are  nice  in  chapels, 
Stolen,  stolen  be  your  apples. 

When  to  bed  the  world  is  bobbing, 
Then's  the  time  for  orchard-robbing; 
Yet  the  fruit  were  scarce  worth  peeling 
Were  it  not  for  stealing,  stealing. 

Leigh  Hunt  {from  the  Italian). 

[45] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

LOVE  AND  AGE 

IPLAY'D  with  you  'mid  cowslips  blowing 
When  I  was  six  and  you  were  four: 
When  garlands  weaving,  flower  balls  throwing, 
Were  pleasures  soon  to  please  no  more. 
Thro'  groves  and  meads,  o'er  grass  and  heather, 

With  little  playmates,  to  and  fro. 
We  wander'd  hand  in  hand  together; 
'  But  that  was  sixty  years  ago. 

You  grew  a  lovely  roseate  maiden, 

And  still  our  early  love  was  strong; 
Still  with  no  care  our  days  were  laden, 

They  glided  joyously  along; 
And  I  did  love  you  very  dearly — 

How  dearly,  words  want  power  to  show; 
I  thought  your  heart  was  touched  as  nearly; 

But  that  was  fifty  years  ago. 

Then  other  lovers  came  around  you, 

Your  beauty  grew  from  year  to  year. 
And  many  a  splendid  circle  found  you 

The  centre  of  its  glittering  sphere. 
I  saw  you  then,  first  vows  forsaking, 

On  rank  and  wealth  your  hand  bestow; 
O,  then,  I  thought  my  heart  was  breaking, — 

But  that  was  forty  years  ago. 

And  I  lived  on  to  wed  another: 

No  cause  she  gave  me  to  repine; 
And  when  I  heard  you  were  a  mother, 

I  did  not  wish  the  children  mine. 

[46  J 


\ 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 

My  own  young  flock,  In  fair  progression, 
Made  up  a  pleasant  Christmas  row: 

My  joy  in  them  was  past  expression; — • 
But  that  was  thirty  years  ago. 

You  grew  a  matron  plump  and  comely, 

You  dwelt  in  fashion's  brightest  blaze; 
My  earthly  lot  was  far  more  homely; 

But  I  too  had  my  festal  days. 
No  merrier  eyes  have  ever  glistened 

Around  the  hearth-stone's  wintry  glow, 
Than  when  my  youngest  child  was  christen'd: — ■ 

But  that  was  twenty  years  ago. 

Time  passed.     My  eldest  girl  was  married 

And  I  now  am  a  grandsire  grey; 
One  pet  of  four  years  old  I've  carried 

Among  the  wild-flower'd  meads  to  play. 
In  our  old  fields  of  childish  pleasure, 

Where  now,  as  then,  the  cowslips  blow, 
She  fills  her  basket's  ample  measure, — 

And  that  is  not  ten  years  ago. 

But  tho'  first  love's  impassion'd  blindness 

Has  pass'd  away  in  colder  light, 
I  still  have  thought  of  you  with  kindness. 

And  shall  do,  till  our  last  good-night. 
The  ever  rolling  silent  hours 

Will  bring  a  time  we  shall  not  know. 
When  our  young  days  of  gathering  flowers 

Will  be  an  hundred  years  ago. 

Thomas  L.  Peacock. 

[  47  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societc  A nihology 


CLUBS 

IF  any  man  loves  comfort  and  has  little  cash  to 
buy  it,  he 
Should  get  into  a  crowded  club — a  most  select 
society, —     ' 
While    solitude    and    mutton-cutlets    serve    injeltx 

uxor,  he 
May  have  his  club,  like  Hercules,  and  revel  there 
in  luxury. 

Yes,  clubs  knock  taverns  on  the  head.     E'en  Hat- 

chett's  can't  demolish  'em; 
Joy  grieves    to    see    their    magnitude,   and   Long 

longs  to  abolish  'em. 
The  Inns  are  out.     Hotels  for  single  men  scarce 

keep  alive  on  it. 
While  none  but  houses  that  are  in  the  family  way 

thrive  on  it. 

There's  first  the  Athenaeum  Club;   so  wise,  there's 

not  a  man  of  it 
That  has  not  sense  enough  for  six — in  fact,  that  is 

the  plan  of  it. 
The  very  waiters  answer  you  with  eloquence  So- 

cratical, 
And  always  place  the  knives  and  forks  in  order 

mathematical. 

[48] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Antholo 


gy 


Then    opposite    the    mental    club   you'll    find   the 

regimental  one — 
A  meeting  made  of  men  of  war,  and  yet  a  very 

gentle  one. 
If  uniform  good  living  please  your  palate,  here's 

excess  of  it. 
Especially  at  private  dinners,  when  they  make  a 

mess  of  it. 

E'en  Isis  has  a  house  in  town  and  Cam  abandons 
her  city; 

The  master  now  hangs  out  at  the  United  Univer- 
sity. 

In  common  room  she  gave  a  rout  (a  novel  freak 
to  hit  upon), 

Where  Masters  gave  the  Mistresses  of  Arts  no 
chairs  to  sit  upon. 

The  Union  Club  is  quite  superb;  its  best  apart- 
ment daily  is 

The  lounge  of  lawyers,  doctors,  merchants,  beaux, 
cum  multts  ahis. 

At  half-past  six  the  joint  concern  for  eighteen  pence 
is  given  you, 

Half-pints  of  port  are  sent  in  ketchup-bottles  to 
enliven  you. 

The  Travellers  are  in  Pall  Mall,  and  smoke  cigars 

so  cosily. 
And  dream  they  climb  the  highest  Alps  or  rove  the 

plains  of  Moselai. 

[49] 


A   Vers  de  Societc  AtJtholo 


gy 


The  world  for  them  has  nothing  new,  they  have 

explored  all  parts  of  it, 
And  now  they  are  club-footed,  and  they  sit  and 

look  at  charts  of  it. 

The  Orientals,  homeward-bound,  now  seek  their 

club  much  sallower. 
And  while  they  eat  green  fat  they  find  their  own 

fat  growing  yellower. 
Their   soup    is    made    more   savoury,    till    bile   to 

shadows  dwindles  'em, 
And    neither    Moore    nor    Savory    with    seidlitz 

draughts  rekindles  'em. 

Then  there  are  clubs  where  persons  parliamentary 

preponderate. 
And  clubs  for  men  upon  the  turf  (I  wonder  they 

ar'n't  under  it); 
Clubs  where  the  w^inning  ways  of  sharper  folks 

pervert  the  use  of  clubs. 
Where  knaves  will  make  subscribers  cry,  "Egad! 

this  is  the  deuce  of  clubs!" 

For  country  squires  the  only  club  in  London  now 

is  Boodle's,  sirs. 
The  Crockford  Club  for  playful  men,  the  Alfred 

Club  for  noodles,  sirs: 
These  are  the  stages  which  all  men  propose  to  play 

their  parts  upon, 
For  Clubs  are  what  the  Londoners  have  clearly  set 

their  hearts  upon. 

Theodore  Hook. 

[50] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


TO  ANNE 

HOW  many  kisses  do  I  ask  ? 
Now  you  set  me  to  my  task. 
First,  sweet  Anne,  will  you  tell  me 
How  many  waves  are  in  the  sea  ? 
How  many  stars  are  in  the  sky  ? 
How  many  lovers  you  make  sigh  ? 
How  many  sands  are  on  the  shore  ? 
I  shall  want  just  one  kiss  more. 

William  Maxwell. 

SONG 

DOST  thou  idly  ask  to  hear 
At  what  gentle  seasons 
Nymphs  relent,  when  lovers  near 
Press  the  tenderest  reasons  ? 
Ah,  they  give  their  faith  too  oft 

To  the  careless  wooer; 
Maidens'  hearts  are  always  soft — 
Would  that  men's  were  truer! 

Woo  the  fair  one,  when  around 

Early  birds  are  singing; 
When,  o'er  all  the  fragrant  ground, 

Early  herbs  are  springing: 
When  the  brookside,  bank,  and  grove, 

All  with  blossoms  laden. 
Shine  with  beauty,  breathe  of  love, — 

Woo  the  timid  maiden. 

[51] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Woo  her  when,  with  rosy  blush, 

Summer  eve  is  sinking; 
When,  on  rills  that  softly  gush. 

Stars  are  softly  winking; 
When,  through  boughs  that  knit  the  bower, 

Moonlight  gleams  are  stealing; 
Woo  her,  till  the  gentle  hour 

Wakes  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her,  when  autumnal  dyes 

Tinge  the  woody  mountain; 
When  the  dropping  foliage  lies 

In  the  weedy  fountain; 
Let  the  scene  that  tells  how  fast 

Youth  is  passing  over, 
Warn  her,  ere  her  bloom  is  past, 

To  secure  her  lover. 

Woo  her  when  the  north  winds  call 

At  the  lattice  nightly; 
When  within  the  cheerful  hall 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly; 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary, 
Sweeter  in  her  ears  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


[52] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


WHAT  IS  LONDON'S  LAST  NEW  LION  ? 

WHAT  is   London's   last  new   lion  ?     Pray, 
inform  me  if  you  can; 
Is't  a  woman  of  Kamschatka  or  an  Ota- 
heite  man  ? 
For   my   conversazione  you   must   send   me   some- 
thing new, 
Don't  forget  me!     Oh  I  sigh  for  the  erlat  of  a  dehui! 

I  am  sick  of  all  the  "minstrels,"  all  the  "brothers" 

this  and  that, 
Who  sing  sweetly  at  the  parties,  while  the  ladies 

laugh  and  chat; 
And  the  man  who  play'd  upon  his  chin  is  passe^  I 

suppose 
So  try  and  find  a  gentleman  who  plays  upon  his 

nose. 

Send  half-a-dozen  authors,  for  they  help  to  fill  a 

rout, 
I  fear  I've  worn  the  literary  lionesses  out! 
Send  something  biographical,  I  think  that  fashion 

spreads, 
But  do  not  send  a  poet,  till  you  find  one  with  two 

heads. 

The  town  has  grown  fastidious,  we  do  not  care  a 

straw 
For  the  whiskers  of  a  bandit,  or  the  tail  of  a  bashaw! 

[53] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Antholo 


gy 


And  travellers  are  out  of  date,  I  mean  to  cut  them 

soon, 
Unless  you  send  me  some  one  who  has  travell'd  to 

the  moon. 

Oh,  if  you  send  a  singer,  he  must  sing  without  a 

throat! 
Oh,  if  you  send  a  player,  he  must  harp  upon  one 

note! 
I    must   have   something   marvellous,   the    marvel 

makes  the  man; 
What  is  London's  last  new  lion  ?     Pray,  inform  me 

if  you  can. 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 


I'D  BE  A  BUTTERFLY 

I'D  be  a  Butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 
Where  roses  and  lilies  and  violets  meet; 
Roving  for  ever  from  flower  to  flower. 
And  kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet! 
I'd  never  languish  for  wealth,  or  for  power* 

I'd  never  sigh  to  see  slaves  at  my  feet: 
I'd  be  a  Butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

Kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet. 

O  could  I  pilfer  the  wand  of  a  fairy, 

I'd  have  a  pair  of  those  beautiful  wings; 

Their  summer  days'  ramble  is  sportive  and  airy, 
They  sleep  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 

[54] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Those  who  have  wealth  must  be  watchful  and  wary; 

Power,  alas!  nought  but  misery  brings! 
I'd  be  a  Butterfly,  sportive  and  airy, 

Rock'd  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings! 

What,  though  you  tell  me  each  gay  little  rover 

Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autumn  day: 
Surely  'tis  better  when  summer  is  over 

To  die  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away. 
Some  in  life's  winter  may  toil  to  discover 

Means  of  procuring  a  weary  delay — • 
I'd  be  a  Butterfly;   living,  a  rover, 

Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away! 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 


"I  MUST  COME  OUT  NEXT  SPRING' 

I   MUST  come  out  next  Spring,  Mamma, 
I  must  come  out  next  Spring; 
To  keep  me  with  my  Governess 
Would  be  a  cruel  thing: 
Whene'er  I  see  my  sisters  dress'd 

In  leno  and  in  lace, — 
Miss  Twig's  apartment  seems  to  be 
A  miserable  place. 

I  must  come  out  next  Spring,  Mamma, 

I  must  come  out  next  Spring; 
To  keep  me  with  my  Governess 
Would  be  a  cruel  thing. 

[55] 


A   Vers  de  Soctete  A ntholo gy 

I'm  very  sick  of  Grosv'nor  Square, 

The  path  within  the  rails; 
I'm  weary  of  Telemachus, 

And  such  outlandish  tales: 
I  hate  my  French,  my  vile  Chambaud; 

In  tears  I've  turn'd  his  leaves; 
Oh!  let  me  Frenchify  my  hair. 
And  take  to  Gigot  sleeves. 

I  must  come  out  next  Spring,  Mamma, 

I  must  come  out  next  Spring; 
To  keep  me  with  my  Governess 
Would  be  a  cruel  thing. 

I  know  quite  well  what  I  should  say 

To  partners  at  a  ball; 
I've  got  a  pretty  speech  or  two, 
And  they  would  serve  for  all. 
If  an  Hussar,  I'd  praise  his  horse, 

And  win  a  smile  from  him; 
And  if  a  Naval  man,  I'd  lisp, 
"Pray,  Captain,  do  you  swim  ?" 

I  must  come  out  next  Spring,  Mamma, 

I  must  come  out  next  Spring; 
To  keep  me  with  my  Governess 
Would  be  a  cruel  thing. 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 


[56] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


"WHY  DON'T  THE  MEN  PROPOSE?" 

WHY  don't  the  men  propose,  mamma  ? 
Why  don't  the  men  propose  ? 
Each  seems  just  coming  to  the  point, 
And  then  away  he  goes! 
It  is  no  fault  of  yours,  mamma, 

That  everybody  knows; 
You  fete  the  finest  men  in  town, 
Yet,  oh,  they  won't  propose! 

I'm  sure  I've  done  my  best,  mamma. 

To  make  a  proper  match; 
For  coronets  and  eldest  sons 

I'm  ever  on  the  w^atch: 
I've  hopes  when  some  distingue  beau 

A  glance  upon  me  throws; 
But  though  he'll  dance,  and  smile,  and  flirt, 

Alas,  he  won't  propose! 

I've  tried  to  win  by  languishing, 

And  dressing  like  a  blue; 
I've  bought  big  books,  and  talk'd  of  them, 

As  if  I  read  them  through! 
With  hair  cropp'd  like  a  man,  I've  felt 

The  heads  of  all  the  beaux; 
But  Spurzheim  could  not  touch  their  hearts. 

And  oh,  they  won't  propose! 

[57] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


I  threw  aside  the  books,  and  thought 

That  ignorance  was  bliss; 
I  felt  convinced  that  men  preferr'd 

A  simple  sort  of  Miss; 
And  so  I  lisp'd  out  naught  beyond 

Plain  "yeses"  or  plain  "noes,'' 
And  wore  a  sweet  unmeaning  smile; 

Yet,  oh,  they  won't  propose! 

Last  night,  at  Lady  Ramble's  rout, 

I  heard  Sir  Harry  Gale 
Exclaim,  "Now,  I  propose  again " 

I  started,  turning  pale; 
I  really  thought  my  time  was  come, 

I  blush'd  like  any  rose; 
But,  oh!   I  found  'twas  only  at 

Ecarte  he'd  propose! 

And  what  is  to  be  done,  mamma  ? 

Oh,  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
I  really  have  no  time  to  lose, 

For  I  am  thirty-one. 
At  balls,  I  am  too  often  left 

Where  spinsters  sit  in  rows; 
Why  won't  the  men  propose,  mamma  ? 

Why  won't  the  men  propose  ? 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 


[58] 


A   Vers  de  Soctete  Anthology 


ASK  AND  HAVE 

OH,  'tis  time  I  should  talk  to  your  mother, 
Sweet  Mary,"  says  I; 
"Oh,    don't   talk   to   my   mother,"   says 
Mary, 
Beginning  to  cry: 
"For  my  mother  says  men  are  deceivers. 
And  never,  I  know,  will  consent; 
She  says  girls  in  a  hurry  who  marry. 
At  leisure  repent." 

"Then,  suppose  I  would  talk  to  your  father, 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I; 
"Oh,  don't  talk  to  my  father,"  says  Mary, 

Beginning  to  cry: 
"For  my  father  he  loves  me  so  dearly. 
He'll  never  consent  I  should  go — 
If  you  talk  to  my  father,"  says  Mary, 
"He'll  surely  say,  'No.'" 

"Then  how  shall  I  get  you,  my  jewel? 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I; 
"If  your  father  and  mother's  so  cruel. 

Most  surely  I'll  die!" 
"Oh,  never  say  die,  dear,"  says  Mary; 
A  way  now  to  save  you  I  see; 
Since  my  parents  are  both  so  contrary — • 
You'd  better  ask  me!" 

Samuel  Lover. 

[  59  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


LINES  IN  A  YOUNG  LADY'S  ALBUM 

A  PRETTY  task,  Miss  S ,  to  ask 
A  Benedictine  pen, 
That  cannot  quite  at  freedom  write 
Like  those  of  other  men. 
No  lover's  plaint  my  Muse  must  paint 

To  fill  this  page's  span, 
But  be  correct  and  recollect 
I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Pray  only  think  for  pen  and  ink 

How  hard  to  get  along, 
That  may  not  turn  on  words  that  burn, 

Or  Love,  the  life  of  song! 
Nine  Muses,  if  I  chooses,  I 

May  woo  all  in  a  clan, 
But  one  Miss  S I  daren't  address — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Scribblers  unwed,  with  little  head 

May  eke  it  out  with  heart. 
And  in  their  lays  it  often  plays 

A  rare  first-fiddle  part: 
They  make  a  kiss  to  rhyme  with  bliss, 

But  if  I  so  began, 
I  have  my  fears  about  my  ears — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 
[60] 


r 

I 


A  Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Upon  your  cheek  I  may  not  speak, 

Nor  on  your  lip  be  warm, 
I  must  be  wise  about  your  eyes. 

And  formal  with  your  form; 
Of  all  that  sort  of  thing,  in  short, 

On  T.  H.  Bayly's  plan, 
I  must  not  twine  a  single  line — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

A  watchman's  part  compels  my  heart 

To  keep  you  off  its  beat. 
And  I  might  dare  as  soon  to  swear 

At  you  as  at  your  feet. 
I  can't  expire  in  passion's  fire, 

As  other  poets  can — 
My  wife  (she's  by)  won't  let  me  die — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Shut  out  from  love,  denied  a  dove, 

Forbidden  bow  and  dart. 
Without  a  groan  to  call  my  own. 

With  neither  hand  nor  heart, 
To  Hymen  vowed,  and  not  allowed 

To  flirt  e'en  with  your  fan, 
Here  end,  as  just  a  friend,  I  must — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Thomas  Hood. 


[6i] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


I 


THE  TIME  OF  ROSES 

T  was  not  in  the  winter 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 
We  plucked  them  as  we  passed. 


That  churlish  season  never  frowned 

On  earthly  lovers  yet: 
Oh,  no!  the  world  was  newly  crowned 

With  flowers  when  first  we  met! 

'Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go. 

But  still  you  held  me  fast; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed. 

What  else  could  peer  thy  glowing  cheek, 

That  tears  began  to  stud  ? 
And  when  I  asked  the  like  of  Love, 

You  snatched  a  damask  bud; 

And  oped  it  to  the  dainty  core, 

Still  glowing  to  the  last. 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed. 

Thomas  Hood. 


[62] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


LOVE 

OLOVE!    What  art  thou,  Love?   the  ace  of 
hearts, 
Trumping   Earth's   kings   and   Queens, 
and  all  its  suits; 
A  player  masquerading  many  parts 

In  life's  odd  carnival; — A  boy  that  shoots, 
From  ladies'  eyes,  such  mortal  woundy  darts; 

A  gardener,  pulling  heart's-ease  up  by  the  roots; 
The  Puck  of  Passion — partly  false — part  real — 
A  marriageable  maiden's  "beau-ideal." 

O  Love,  what  art  thou,  Love  ?   a  wicked  thing, 
Making  green  misses  spoil  their  work  at  school; 

A  melancholy  man,  cross-gartering  ? 

Grave  ripe-faced  wisdom  made  an  April  fool  ? 

A  youngster  tilting  at  a  wedding-ring  ? 
A  sinner,  sitting  on  a  cuttie  stool  ? 

A  Ferdinand  de  Something  in  a  hovel, 

Helping  Matilda  Rose  to  make  a  novel  ? 

O  Love!   what  art  thou.  Love  ?    one  that  is  bad 
With  palpitations  of  the  heart — like  mine — 

A  poor  bewildered  maid,  making  so  sad 
A  necklace  of  her  garters — fell  design! 

A  poet  gone  unreasonably  mad, 

Ending  his  sonnets  with  a  hempen  line  ? 

O  Love! — but  whither  now?    forgive  me,  pray; 

I'm  not  the  first  that  Love  hath  led  astray. 

Thomas  Hood. 

[63] 


I 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


TO  HELEN 

F  wandering  in  a  wizard's  car 

Through  yon  blue  ether,  I  were  able 
To  fashion  of  a  little  star 
A  taper  for  my  Helen's  table; — 


"What  then  ?"  she  asks  me  with  a  laugh — 
Why,  then,  with  all  heaven's  lustre  glowing. 

It  would  not  gild  her  path  with  half 

The  light  her  love  o'er  mine  is  throwing 

Winthrop  M ackworth  Praed. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL-ROOM 

YEARS — years  ago, — ere  yet  my  dreams 
Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty, — 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes, 
Or  yawn'd  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty; — 
Years — years  ago, — while  all  my  joy 

Was  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly, — 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 
I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  the  County  Ball: 

There,  where  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle, 
Gave  signal  sweet,  in  that  old  hall, 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 

[64] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  set  young  hearts  romancing, 

She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star; 

And  then  she  danced — O  Heaven,  her  dancing! 


Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender! 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows; 
I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  Isle, 

And  wonder'd  where  she'd  left  her  sparrows. 


She  talk'd, — of  politics  or  prayers, — 

Or  Southey's  prose,  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets,- 
Of  danglers — or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles — or  the  last  new  bonnets, 
By  candlelight,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

To  me  it  matter'd  not  a  tittle; 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmur'd  Little. 
Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Journal: 
My  mother  laugh'd;   I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling: 
My  father  frown'd;    but  how  should  gout 

See  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ? 

[65] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Dean, 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic; 
She  had  one  brother,  just  thirteen. 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic; 
Her  grandmother  for  many  a  year 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer. 

And  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  County. 

But  titles,  and  the  three  per  cents. 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rents. 

Oh  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks — • 

Such  wealth,  such  honors,  Cupid  chooses, 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  Stocks, 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  Muses. 

She  sketch'd;   the  vale,  the  wood    the  beach, 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading: 
She  botanized;   I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading: 
She  warbled  Handel;   it  was  grand; 

She  made  the  Catalan!  jealous: 
She  touch'd  the  organ;    I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home. 

Well  fiU'd  with  all  an  album's  glories; 

Paintings  of  butterflies,  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimmings,  Persian  stories; 

[66] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Fierce  odes  to  Famine  and  to  Slaughter, 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo, 

And  recipes  for  elder-water. 

And  she  was  flatter'd,  worshipp'd,  bored; 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  was  noted; 
Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored, 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted; 
She  laugh'd,  and  every  heart  was  glad, 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolish'd; 
She  frown'd,  and  every  look  was  sad. 

As  if  the  Opera  were  demolish'd. 

She  smiled  on  many,  just  for  fun, — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it; 
I  was  the  first — the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute. — 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so, 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand, — and  oh! 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves; — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver, 
A  rose-bud,  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "Fly  not  yet" — upon  the  river; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir. 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair. 

The  usual  vows, — and  then  we  parted. 

[67] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

We  parted;    months  and  years  roll'd  by; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after: 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh; 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter: 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  Belle, 

But  only — Mrs.  Something  Rogers! 

Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed. 


AMY'S  CRUELTY 

FAIR  Amy  of  the  terraced  House! 
Assist  me  to  discover 
Why  you,  who  would  not  hurt  a  mouse. 
Can  torture  so  a  lover  ? 

You  give  your  coffee  to  the  cat, 

You  stroke  the  dog  for  coming. 
And  all  your  face  grows  kinder  at 

The  little  brown  bee's  humming. 

But  when  he  haunts  your  door — the  town 
Marks  coming  and  marks  going— 

You  seem  to  have  stitched  your  eyelids  down 
To  that  long  piece  of  sewing! 

You  never  give  a  look,  not  you. 
Nor  drop  him  a  "Good-morning," 

To  keep  his  long  day  warm  and  blue, 
So  fretted  by  your  scorning. 

[68] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


She  shook  her  head — "The  mouse  and  bee 
For  crumb  or  flower  will  linger; 

The  dog  is  happy  at  my  knee, 
The  cat  purrs  at  my  finger. 

"But  he — to  him,  the  least  thing  given 
Means  great  things  at  a  distance: 
He  wants  my  world,  my  sun,  my  heaven, 
Soul,  body,  whole  existence. 

"They  say  love  gives  as  well  as  takes; 
But  I'm  a  simple  maiden, — 
My  mother's  first  smile  when  she  wakes 
I  still  have  smiled  and  prayed  in. 

"I  only  know  my  mother's  love, 

Which  gives  all  and  asks  nothing; 
And  this  new  loving  sets  the  groove 
Too  much  the  way  of  loathing. 

"Unless  he  gives  me  all  in  'change, 
I  forfeit  all  things  by  him; 
The  risk  is  terrible  and  strange; 
1  tremble,  doubt — deny  him. 

"His  sweetest  friend,  or  hardest  foe, 
Best  angel  or  worst  devil, 
I  either  hate — or  love  him  so, 
I  can't  be  merely  civil! 

[69] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

"Such  love's  a  cowslip-ball  to  fling, 
A  moment's  pretty  pastime; 
I  give — all  me,  if  anything. 

The  first  time,  and  the  last  time. 

"Dear  neighbour  of  the  trellised  house! 
A  man  should  murmur  never. 
Though  treated  w^orse  than  dog  or  mouse, 
Till  doted  on  for  ever." 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Brotuning. 

BEWARE! 

I   KNOW  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 
Take  care! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 
Beware!  Beware! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 

Take  care! 
She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down. 

Beware!  Beware! 

Trust  her  not. 
She  is  fooling  thee! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue, 

Take  care! 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true, 

Beware!  Beware! 

Trust  her  not. 
She  is  fooling  thee! 

[70] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show. 

Beware!  Beware! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee! 

She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair, 

Take  care! 
It's  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 

Beware!   Beware! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


LOVE  IN  A  COTTAGE 

THEY  may  talk  of  love  in  a  cottage. 
And  bowers  of  trellised  vine, — 
Of  nature  bewitchingly  simple. 
And  milkmaids  half  divine; 
They  may  talk  of  the  pleasure  of  sleeping 

In  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree. 
And  a  walk  in  the  fields  at  morning 
By  the  side  of  a  footstep  free. 

But  give  me  a  sly  flirtation 

By  the  light  of  a  chandelier, 
With  music  to  play  in  the  pauses. 

And  nobody  very  near: 

[71] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Or  a  seat  on  a  silken  sofa, 

With  a  glass  of  pure  old  wine, 

And  mamma  too  blind  to  discover 

'The  small  white  hand  in  mine. 

Your  love  in  a  cottage  is  hungry, 

Your  vine  is  a  nest  for  flies, 
Your  milkmaid  shocks  the  Graces, 

And  simplicity  talks  of  pies. 
You  lie  down  to  your  shady  slumber 

And  wake  with  a  bug  in  your  ear, 
And  your  damsel  that  walks  in  the  morning 

Is  shod  like  a  mountaineer. 

True  love  is  at  home  on  a  carpet. 

And  mightily  likes  his  ease. 
And  true  love  has  an  eye  for  a  dinner, 

And  starves  beneath  shady  trees. 
His  wing  is  the  fan  of  a  lady. 

His  foot's  an  invisible  thing. 
And  his  arrow  is  tipped  with  a  jewel 

And  shot  from  a  silver  string. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


[72] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


BECAUSE 

SWEET  Nea!  for  your  lovely  sake 
I  weave  these  rambling  numbers, 
Because  I've  lain  an  hour  awake, 
And  can't  compose  my  slumbers; 
Because  your  beauty's  gentle  light 

Is  round  my  pillow  beaming, 
And  flings,  I  know  not  why,  to-night. 
Some  witchery  o'er  my  dreaming. 

Because  we've  pass'd  some  joyous  days, 

And  danced  some  merry  dances; 
Because  we  love  old  Beaumont's  plays. 

And  old  Froissart's  romances! 
Because  whene'er  I  hear  your  words 

Some  pleasant  feeling  lingers; 
Because  I  think  your  heart  has  chords, 

That  vibrate  to  your  fingers! 

Because  you've  got  those  long,  soft  curls, 

I've  sworn  should  deck  my  goddess; 
Because  you're  not  like  other  girls. 

All  bustle,  blush,  and  bodice! 
Because  your  eyes  are  deep  and  blue, 

Your  fingers  long  and  rosy; 
Because  a  little  child  and  you 

Would  make  one's  home  so  cosy! 

[73] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Because  your  little  tiny  nose 

Turns  up  so  pert  and  funny; 
Because  I  know  you  choose  your  beaux 

More  for  their  mirth  than  money; 
Because  I  think  you'd  rather  twirl 

A  waltz,  with  rpe  to  guide  you, 
Than  talk  small  nonsense  with  an  earl 

And  a  coronet  beside  you! 

Because  you  don't  object  to  walk. 

And  are  not  given  to  fainting; 
Because  you  have  not  learnt  to  talk 

Of  flowers,  and  Poonah-painting; 
Because  I  think  you'd  scarce  refuse 

To  sew  one  on  a  button; 
Because  I  know  you'd  sometimes  choose 

To  dine  on  simple  mutton! 

Because  I  think  I'm  just  so  weak 

As,  some  of  those  fine  morrows, 
To  ask  you  if  you'll  let  me  speak 

My  story- — and  my  sorrows; 
Because  the  rest's  a  simple  thing, 

A  matter  quickly  over, 
A  church — a  priest — a  sigh — a  ring — 

And  a  chaise  and  four  to  Dover. 

Edward  Fitzgerald. 


[74] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


LILIAN 

AIRY,  fairy  Lilian, 
J-\  Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 

When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Clasps  her  tiny  hand  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can; 
She'll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me. 

Cruel  little  Lilian. 

When  my  passion  seeks 

Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 
She,  looking  through  and  through  me. 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks: 

So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gathered  wimple 

Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 

The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks; 

Then  away  she  flies. 

Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian! 

Gaiety  without  eclipse 
Wearieth  me.  May  Lilian: 
Through  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth, 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth: 
Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian! 

[75] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Praying  all  I  can, 
If  prayers  will  not  hurt  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  HENCHMAN 

MY  lady  walks  her  morning  round. 
My  lady's  page  her  fleet  greyhound. 
My  lady's  hair  the  fond  winds  stir. 
And  all  the  birds  make  songs  for  her. 

Her  thrushes  sing  in  Rathburn  bowers. 
And  Rathburn  side  is  gay  with  flowers; 
But  ne'er  like  hers,  in  flower  or  bird, 
Was  beauty  seen  or  music  heard. 

The  distance  of  the  stars  is  hers; 
The  least  of  all  her  worshippers. 
The  dust  beneath  her  dainty  heel. 
She  knows  not  that  I  see  or  feel. 


Oh,  proud  and  calm! — she  cannot  know 
Where'er  she  goes  with  her  I  go; 
Oh,  cold  and  fair! — she  cannot  guess 
I  kneel  to  share  her  hound's  caress! 

Gay  knights  beside  her  hunt  and  hawk, 
I  rob  their  ears  of  her  sweet  talk; 
Her  suitors  come  from  East  and  West, 
I  steal  her  smiles  from  every  guest. 

[76] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Unheard  of  her,  in  loving  words, 

I  greet  her  with  the  song  of  birds; 

I  reach  her  with  the  green-armed  bowers, 

I  kiss  her  with  the  Hps  of  flowers. 

The  hound  and  I  are  on  her  trail, 
The  wind  and  I  uplift  her  veil; 
As  if  the  calm,  cold  moon  she  were, 
And  I  the  tide,  I  follow  her. 

As  unrebuked  as  they,  I  share 

The  license  of  the  sun  and  air, 

And  in  a  common  homage  hide 

My  worship  from  her  scorn  and  pride. 

World-wide  apart,  and  yet  so  near, 
I  breathe  her  charmed  atmosphere, 
Wherein  to  her  my  service  brings 
The  reverence  due  to  holy  things. 

Her  maiden  pride,  her  haughty  name, 
My  dumb  devotion  shall  not  shame; 
The  love  that  no  return  doth  crave 
To  knightly  levels  lifts  the  slave. 

No  lance  have  I,  in  joust  or  fight. 
To  splinter  in  my  lady's  sight; 
But,  at  her  feet,  how  blest  were  I 
For  any  need  of  hers  to  die! 

'John  Greenleaf  Whittter. 


[77] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 
DOROTHY  Q 

A   FAMILY    PORTRAIT 

GRANDMOTHER'S  mother:  her  age,  I  guess, 
Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less; 
GirHsh  bust  but  womanly  air; 
Smooth,  square  forehead  with  uprolled  hair; 
Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed; 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist; 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade; 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 

Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene. 

Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view, — 

Look!  there's  a  rent  the  light  shines  through, 

Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust, — 

That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust! 

Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 

Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell, — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed. 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien.  > 

[73] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A  nthology 


Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn, — 
Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born! 
Ay!   Since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name; 
And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown. 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son. 

O  Damsel  Dorothy!   Dorothy  Q.! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save  to  daughter  or  son  might  bring, — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and  life! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No, 

When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 

That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name. 

And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 

The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's  thrill  ? 

Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 

One  tenth  another,  to  nine  tenths  me  ? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  maiden's  Yes: 
Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less; 
But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 
Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 

[79] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 

That  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so  long! 

There  vv^ere  tones  in  the  voice  that  w^hispered  then 

You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men. 

O  lady  and  lover,  hov^  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover, — and  here  we  are, 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone, — 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's — all  their  own, — 
A  goodly  record  for  Time  to  show 
Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago! — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me  live  ? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid! 
It  will  heal  the  stab  of  the  Red-Coat's  blade, 
And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished  frame, 
And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  household  name; 
So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light. 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through  a  second  youth  of  a  hundred  years. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


[So] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 


A  REMINISCENCE 

"C'etait  en  Avril,  le  Dimanche" — Pailleron 

"TPWAS    April;     'twas    Sunday;     the    day    was 
1  fair,— 

Yes!    sunny  and  fair. 

And  how  happy  was  I! 
You  wore  the  white  dress  you  loved  to  wear; 
And  two  little  flowers  were  hid  in  your  hair — ■ 

Yes!  in  your  hair — 

On  that  day — gone  by! 

We  sat  on  the  moss;   it  was  shady  and  dry; 

Yes!  shady  and  dry; 

And  we  sat  in  the  shadow. 
We  looked  at  the  leaves,  we  looked  at  the  sky; 
We  looked  at  the  brook  which  bubbled  near  by, — 

Yes!  bubbled  near  by. 

Through  the  quiet  meadow. 

A  bird  sang  on  the  swinging  vine, — ■ 
Yes!  on  the  vine, — 
And  then, — sang  not; 
I  took  your  little  white  hand  in  mine; 
'Twas    April;     'twas    Sunday;     'twas   warm    sun- 
shine,— • 

Yes!  warm  sunshine: 
Have  you  forgot  ? 

'James  Freeman  Clarke. 

[8i] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM 

HO,  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin. 
That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear, 
All  you  W'ish  is  woman  to  win. 
This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains. 
Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer; 

Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 

Under  Bonnybell's  windov/  panes, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass, 
Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear — 

Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass. 

Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass, 
Once  you  have  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Pledge  me  round,  I  bid  ye  declare. 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  grey, 

Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  passed  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed. 
The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 

May  pray  and  whisper,  and  we  not  list, 

Or  look  away,  and  never  be  missed. 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

[82] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 


Gillian's  dead,  God  rest  her  bier, 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne! 

Marian's  married,  but  I  sit  here 

Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE 

A  STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 
For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Champs  its  name  is — 
The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields. 
And  here's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid 

But  still  in  comfortable  case; 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended 
To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is, 

A  sort  of  soup  or  broth,  or  brew. 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo; 
Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffron, 

Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach  and  dace: 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terre's  tavern 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed  a  rich  and  savoury  stew  'tis; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks. 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 

[83] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 

Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before; 
The  smiling  red-cheeked  "ecaillere"  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace; 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table 

And  hope  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 


We  enter — nothing's  changed  or  older. 

"Hov^'s  Monsieur  Terre,  waiter,  pray?" 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder — 
"Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner. 

So  honest  Terre's  run  his  race." 
"What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner?" 
"Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse?" 

"Oh,  oui.  Monsieur,"  is  the  waiter's  answer, 

"Quel  vin,  Monsieur,  desire-t-il  ?" 
"Tell  me  a  good  one."     "That  I  can,  sir: 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal." 
"So  Terre's  gone,"  I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  place; 
"He's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking. 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

[84] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  here  is, 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook; 
Ah!  vanish'd  many  a  busy  year  is; 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took, 
When  first  I  saw  ye,  ''can  luoghi" 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  days  met  here  to  dine  ? 
Come,  waiter!  quick,  a  flagon  crusty, 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 


There's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  marriage. 

There's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet. 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage, 

There's  poor  old  Fred  in  the  "Gazette"; 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing: 

Good  Lord!  the  world  has  wagged  a-pace, 
Since  here  we  set  the  claret  flowing 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me!  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting. 

I  mind  me  of  the  time  that's  gone. 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting 

In  this  same  place — but  not  alone. 

[85] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 
A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up. 

And  sweetly  spoke,  and  smiled  to  cheer  me — ■ 
There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill    it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes: 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is. 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart  whate'er  the  meat  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


AN  INVITATION 

TELL  me,  pretty  one,  where  will  you  sail  ? 
How  shall  our  bark  be  steered,  I  pray  ? 
Breezes  flutter  each  silken  veil, 
Tell  me,  where  will  you  go  to-day  ? 

My  vessel's  helm  is  of  ivory  white. 
Her  bulwarks  glisten  with  jewels  bright 

And  red  gold; 
The  sails  are  made  from  the  wings  of  a  dove, 
And  the  man  at  the  wheel  is  the  god  of  love, 

Blithe  and  bold. 
[86] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  A nthology 

Where  shall  we  sail  ?     'Mid  the  Baltic's  foam  ? 
Or  over  the  broad  Pacific  roam  ? 

Don't  refuse. 
Say,  shall  we  gather  the  sweet  snow-flowers, 
Or  wander  in  rose-strewn  Eastern  bowers  ? 

Only  choose. 

"Oh,  carry  me  then,"  cried  the  fair  coquette, 
To  the  land  where  never  I've  journeyed  yet, 

To  that  shore 
Where  love  is  lasting,  and  change  unknown, 
And  a  man  is  faithful  to  one  alone 

Evermore." 

Go,  seek  that  land  for  a  year  and  a  day, 

At  the  end  of  the  time  you'll  be  still  far  away 

Pretty  maid; — 
'Tis  a  country  unlettered  in  map  or  in  chart, 
Tis  a  country  that  does  not  exist,  sweetheart, 

I'm  afraid! 
Translated  from  Theophile  Gautier. 


[87] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  A nthology 


FANNY;  OR  THE  BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEE 

FANNY,  array'd  in  the  bloom  of  her  beauty, 
Stood  at  the  mirror,  and  toy'd  with  her 
hair, 
Viewing  her  charms,  till  she  felt  it  a  duty 

To  own  that  like  Fanny  no  woman  was  fair. 
A  Bee  from  the  garden — oh,  what  could  mislead 
him  ? — 
Stray'd  through  the  lattice  new  dainties  to  seek. 
And  lighting  on  Fanny,  too  busy  to  heed  him, 
Stung  the  sweet  maid  on  her  delicate  cheek. 

Smarting  with  pain,  round  the  chamber  she  sought 
him, 

Tears  in  her  eyes,  and  revenge  in  her  heart. 
And  angrily  cried,  when  at  length  she  had  caught  him, 

"Die  for  the  deed,  little  wretch  that  thou  art!" 
Stooping  to  crush  him,  the  hapless  offender 

Pray'd  her  for  mercy, — to  hear  and  forgive; 
"Oh,  spare  me!"  cried  he,  "by  those  eyes  in  their 
splendour; 

Oh,  pity  my  fault,  and  allow  me  to  live! 

"Am  I  to  blame  that  your  cheeks  are  like  roses, 

Whose  hues  all  the  pride  of  the  garden  eclipse  ? 
Lilies  are  hid  in  your  mouth  when  it  closes. 

And  odours  of  Araby  breathe  from  your  lips." 
Sweet  Fanny  relented:  "'twere  cruel  to  hurt  you; 

Small  is  the  fault,  pretty  bee,  you  deplore; 
And  e'en  were  it  greater,  forgiveness  is  virtue; 

Go  forth  and  be  happy — I  blame  you  no  more." 

Charles  Mackay. 
[881 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


GARDEN  FANCIES 


THE    flower's    name 


HERE'S  the  garden  she  walked  across, 
Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since: 
Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 
Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince! 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail,  my  chance  foot  spurned, 
To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

II 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel-walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box: 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  phlox. 
Roses  ranged  in  a  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by! 
She  loves  you,  noble  roses,  I  know; 

But  yonder,  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie! 

Ill 

This  flower  she  stooped  at,  finger  on  lip. 
Stooped  over  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim; 

Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 
Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name: 

[89] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

What  a  name!     Was  it  love  or  praise? 

Speech  half-asleep  or  song  half-awake  ? 
I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days, 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sake. 

IV 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase; 
But  do  not  detain  me  now;   for  she  lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 
And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 


Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not. 

Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  for  ever! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you,  'tis  that  you  blow  not: 

Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never! 
For  while  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 
Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle — 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen  ? 

VI 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with  me  ? 

[90] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces, 
Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall! 

■ — Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces— - 
Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all! 

Robert  Browning. 


A  POEM  OF  EVERY-DAY  LIFE 

HE  tore  him  from  the  merry  throng 
Within  the  billiard  hall; 
He  was  gotten  up  regardlessly 
To  pay  his  party  call. 
His  thoughts  were  dire  and  dark  within, 

Discourteous  to  fate: 
"Ah,  me!  these  social  debts  incurred 
Are  hard  to  liquidate." 

His  boots  were  slender,  long  and  trim; 

His  collar  tall  and  swell; 
His  hats  were  made  by  Dunlap, 

And  his  coats  were  cut  by  Bell; 
A  symphony  in  black  and  white, 

"Of  our  set'  the  pride. 
Yet  he  lingered  on  his  way — ■ 

He  would  that  he  had  died. 

His  feet  caressed  the  lonely  way, 
The  pave  gave  forth  no  sound; 

They  seemed  in  pitying  silence  clothed 
West-End-ward  he  was  bound. 

[91] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


He  approached  the  mansion  stealthily, 
The  step  looked  cold  and  chill; 

He  glanced  into  the  vestibule, 
But  all  was  calm  and  still. 

He  fingered  nervously  the  bell, 

His  card-case  in  his  hand; 
He  saw  the  mirror  in  the  hall — • 

Solemn,  stately,  grand. 
Suddenly  his  spirits  rose; 

The  drawing-room  looked  dim; 
The  menial  filled  his  soul  with  joy 

With  "No,  there's  no  one  in." 

With  fiendish  glee  he  stole  away; 

His  heart  was  gay  and  light, 
Happy  that  he  went  and  paid 

His  party  call  that  night. 
His  steps  turned  to  the  billiard  hall. 

Blissfully  he  trod; 
He  entered:  "What,  returned  so  soon?" 

Replied:   "She's  out,  thank  God!" 

Sixteen  cues  were  put  to  rest 

Within  their  upright  beds. 
And  sixteen  different  tiles  were  placed 

On  sixteen  level  heads; 
Sixteen  men  upon  the  street 

In  solid  phalanx  all, 
And  sixteen  men  on  duty  bent 

To  pay  their  party  call. 
[92] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 


When  the  fairest  of  her  sex  came  home 

At  early  dawn,  I  ween, 
She  slowly  looked  the  cards  all  out — ■ 

They  numbered  seventeen. 
With  calm  relief  she  raised  her  eyes, 

Filled  with  grateful  light, 
"Oh,  merciful  Fate,  look  down  and  see 

What  I've  escaped  this  night!" 

Albert  Riddle. 


LOVE  DISPOSED  OF 

HERE  goes  Love!     Now  cut  him  clear, 
A  weight  about  his  neck: 
If  he  linger  longer  here, 
Our  ship  will  be  a  wreck. 
Overboard!     Overboard! 

Down  let  him  go! 
In  the  deep  he  may  sleep 
Where  the  corals  grow. 

He  said  he'd  woo  the  gentle  breeze, 

A  bright  tear  in  her  eye; 
But  she  was  false  or  hard  to  please, 

Or  he  has  told  a  lie. 
Overboard!  overboard! 

Down  in  the  sea 
He  may  find  a  truer  mind, 

Where  the  mermaids  be. 

[93] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

He  sang  us  many  a  merry  song 

While  the  breeze  was  kind; 
But  he  has  been  lamenting  long 

The  falseness  of  the  wind. 
Overboard!  overboard! 

Under  the  wave 
Let  him  sing  where  smooth  shells  ring 

In  the  ocean's  cave. 

He  may  struggle;   he  may  weep; 

We'll  be  stern  and  cold; 
His  grief  will  find,  within  the  deep, 

More  tears  than  can  be  told. 
He  has  gone  overboard! 

We  will  float  on; 
We  shall  find  a  truer  wind. 

Now  that  he  is  gone. 

Robert  Traill  Spence  Lowell. 


F 


MABEL,  IN  NEW  HAMPSHIRE 

AIREST  of  the  fairest,  rival  of  the  rose, 
That  is  Mabel  of  the  Hills,  as  everybody 
knows. 


Do  you  ask  me  near  what  stream  this  sweet  flow- 
eret grows  ? 

That's  an  ignorant  question,  sir,  as  everybody 
knows. 

[94] 


A   Vers  de  Socictc  A nthology 

Ask  you  what  her  age  is,  reckoned  as  time  goes  ? 
Just  the  age  of  beauty,  as  everybody  knows. 

Is  she  tall  as  Rosalind,  standing  on  her  toes  ? 
She  is  just  the  perfect  height,  as  everybody  knows. 

What's  the  color  of  her  eyes,  when  they  ope  or 

close  ? 
Just  the  color  they  should  be,  as  everybody  knows. 

Is  she  lovelier  dancing,  or  resting  in  repose  ? 
Both  are  radiant  pictures,  as  everybody  knows. 

Do  her  ships  go  sailing  on  every  wind  that  blows  ? 
She  is  richer  far  than  that,  as  everybody  knows. 

Has  she  scores  of  lovers,  heaps  of  bleeding  beaux  ? 
That  question's   quite   superfluous,   as   everybody 
knows. 

I  could  tell  you  something,  if  I  only  chose! — • 
But   what's    the    use    of   telling   what    everybody 
knows  ? 

'James  Thomas  Fields. 


[95] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


THE  COQUETTE 


A   PORTRAIT 


Y 


OU'RE  clever  at  drawing,  I  own," 
Said  my  beautiful  cousin  Lisette, 
As  we  sat  by  the  window  alone, 
"But  say,  can  you  paint  a  Coquette?" 


"She's  painted  already,"  quoth  I; 

"Nay,  nay!"  said  the  laughing  Lisette, 
"Now  none  of  your  joking — -but  try 

And  paint  me  a  thorough  Coquette." 

"Well,  Cousin,"  at  once  I  began 
In  the  ear  of  the  eager  Lisette, 

"I'll  paint  you  as  well  as  I  can. 

That  wonderful  thing,  a  Coquette. 

"She  wears  a  most  beautiful  face" 

("Of  course,"  said  the  pretty  Lisette), 

"And  isn't  deficient  in  grace. 

Or  else  she  were  not  a  Coquette. 

"And  then  she  is  daintily  made" 
(A  smile  from  the  dainty  Lisette) 

"By  people  expert  in  the  trade 
Of  forming  a  proper  Coquette. 

[96] 


A   Vers  de  Socictc  Anthology 

"She's  the  winningest  ways  with  the  beaux" 
("Go  on!"  said  the  winning  Lisette), 

"But  there  isn't  a  man  of  them  knows 
The  mind  of  the  fickle  Coquette! 

"She  knows  how  to  weep  and  to  sigh" 
(A  sigh  from  the  tender  Lisette), 

"But  her  weeping  is  all  in  my  eye — 
Not  that  of  the  cunning  Coquette! 

"In  short,  she's  a  creature  of  art" 

("Oh,  hush!"  said  the  frowning  Lisette), 

"With  merely  the  ghost  of  a  heart — 
Enough  for  a  thorough  Coquette. 

"And  yet  I  could  easily  prove" 

("Now  don't!"  said  the  angry  Lisette), 

"The  lady  is  always  in  love- 
in  love  with  herself — the  Coquette! 

"There — do  not  be  angry — ^you  know. 
My  dear  little  Cousin  Lisette, 
You  told  me  a  moment  ago, 

To  paint  you — a  thorough  Coquette!" 

John  Godfrey  Saxe. 


[97] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


JUSTINE,  YOU  LOVE  ME  NOT! 

"Helas!  vous  ne  rnaimez  pas." — Piron. 

I  KNOW,  Justine,  you  speak  me  fair 
As  often  as  we  meet; 
And  'tis  a  luxury,  I  swear, 
To  hear  a  voice  so  sweet; 
And  yet  it  does  not  please  me  quite, 

The  civil  way  you've  got; 
For  me  you're  something  too  polite — ■ 
Justine,  you  love  me  not! 

I  know,  Justine,  you  never  scold 

At  aught  that  I  may  do: 
If  I  am  passionate  or  cold, 

'Tis  all  the  same  to  you. 
"A  charming  temper,"  say  the  men, 

"To  smooth  a  husband's  lot": 
I  wish  'twere  ruffled  now  and  then — 

Justine,  you  love  me  not! 

I  know,  Justine,  you  wear  a  smile 

As  beaming  as  the  sun; 
But  who  supposes  all  the  while 

It  shines  for  only  one  ? 
Though  azure  skies  are  fair  to  see, 

A  transient  cloudy  spot 
In  yours  would  promise  more  to  me — • 

Justine,  you  love  me  not! 

[98] 


A   Vers  de  Societc  Anthology 

I  know,  Justine,  you  make  my  name 

Your  eulogistic  theme, 
And  say- — ^if  any  chance  to  blame — ■ 

You  hold  me  in  esteem. 
Such  words,  for  all  their  kindly  scope, 

Delight  me  not  a  jot; 
Just  as  you  would  have  praised  the  Pope — • 

Justine,  you  love  me  not! 

I  know,  Justine — for  I  have  heard 

What  friendly  voices  tell — • 
You  do  not  blush  to  say  the  word, 

"You  like  me  passing  well;" 
And  thus  the  fatal  sound  I  hear 

That  seals  my  lonely  lot: 
There's  nothing  now  to  hope  or  fear — 

Justine,  you  love  me  not! 

yo/in  Godfrey  Saxe. 

SING  HEIGH-HO! 

THERE  sits  a  bird  on  every  tree 
Sing  heigh-ho! 
There  sits  a  bird  on  every  tree, 
And  courts  his  love,  as  I  do  thee; 

Sing  heigh-ho,  and  heigh-ho! 
Young  maids  must  marry. 

There  grows  a  flower  on  every  bough, 

Sing  heigh-ho! 
There  grows  a  flower  on  every  bough. 
Its  petals  kiss — I'll  show  you  how: 

Sing  heigh-ho  and  heigh-ho! 
Young  maids  must  marry. 

[99] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


From  sea  to  stream  the  salmon  roam: 

Sine  heio-h-ho! 
From  sea  to  stream  the  salmon  roam; 
Each  finds  a  mate,  and  leads  her  home; 

Sing  heigh-ho,  and  heigh-ho! 
Young  maids  must  marry. 

The  sun's  a  bridegroom,  earth  a  bride, 

Sing  heigh-ho! 
They  court  from  morn  till  eventide: 
The  earth  shall  pass,  but  love  abide; 

Sing  heigh-ho,  and  heigh-ho! 
Young  maids  must  marry. 

Charles  Kingsley. 

SNOWDROP 

WHEN,  full  of  warm  and  eager  love, 
I  clasp  you  in  my  fond  embrace, 
You  gently  push  me  back  and  say, 
"Take  care,  my  dear,  you'll  spoil  my  lace." 

You  kiss  me  just  as  you  would  kiss 

Some  woman  friend  you  chanced  to  see; 

You  call  me  "dearest." — All  love's  forms 
Are  yours,  not  its  reality. 

Oh,  Annie!  cry,  and  storm,  and  rave! 

Do  anything  with  passion  in  it! 
Hate  me  an  hour,  and  then  turn  round 

And  love  me  truly,  just  one  minute. 

William  JVetmore  Story. 

[  lOO  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


THE  PROTEST 

1  COULD  not  bear  to  see  those  eyes 
On  all  with  wasteful  largess  shine. 
And  that  delight  of  welcome  rise 
Like  sunshine  strained  through  amber  wine, 
But  that  a  glow  from  deeper  skies, 
From  conscious  fountains  more  divine. 
Is  (is  it  ?)  mine. 

Be  beautiful  to  all  mankind. 
As  Nature  fashioned  thee  to  be; 
'Twould  anger  me  did  all  not  find 
The  sweet  perfection  that's  in  thee; 
Yet  keep  one  charm  of  charms  behind, — • 
Nay,  thou  'rt  so  rich,  keep  two  of  three 
For  (is  it  ?)  me! 

"James  Russell  Lozuell. 


SCHERZO 

WHEN  the  down  is  on  the  chin 
And  the  gold-gleam  in  the  hair, 
When  the  birds  their  sweethearts  win 
And  champagne  is  in  the  air 
Love  is  here,  and  Love  is  there, 
Love  is  welcome  everywhere. 

[lOl] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Summer's  cheek  too  soon  turns  thin, 
Day  grows  briefer,  sunshine  rare; 
Autumn  from  his  cannikin 
Blows  the  froth  to  chase  Despair: 
Love  is  met  with  frosty  stare, 
Cannot  house  'neath  branches  bare. 

When  new  life  is  in  the  leaf 

And  new  red  is  in  the  rose. 

Though  Love's  Maytime  be  as  brief 

As  a  dragon-fly's  repose. 

Never  moments  come  like  those. 

Be  they  Heaven  or  Hell :  who  knows  ? 

All  too  soon  comes  Winter's  grief, 
Spendthrift  Love's  false  friends  turn  foes; 
Softly  comes  Old  Age,  the  thief. 
Steals  the  rapture,  leaves  the  throes: 
Love  his  mantle  round  him  throws, — 
"Time  to  say  good-bye;    it  snows." 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  HANDSOMEST  MAN  IN  THE  ROOM 

I'VE  always  been  told  that  I'm  pretty 
(And  really  I  think  so  myself), 
I'm  accomplished,  good-tempered,  and  witty, 
And  papa  has  got  plenty  of  pelf. 
My  teeth,  eyes,  and  curls,  I  won't  mention. 
My  shape,  nor  my  delicate  bloom; 

[  I02  ] 


A   Vers  de  S octet e  Anthology 

But  I'm  sure  I  deserve  the  attention 

Of  "the  handsomest  man  in  the  room." 

Yes.  I  know  I  deserve  the  attention, 

Of  the  "handsomest  man  in  the  room." 

When  I  met  that  sublimest  of  fellows, 

The  sight  really  made  my  heart  jump; 
Other  men  shrank  to  mere  punchinellos, 

As  he  towered  like  a  pine  in  a  clump. 
So  noble  and  classic  each  feature, 

With  a  touching  expression  of  gloom, 
That  I  said  to  myself — "The  dear  creature! 

He's  the  handsomest  man  in  the  room!" 
**Yes!"  I  said  to  myself, — "The  dear  creature! 

He's  the  handsomest  man  in  the  room!" 

He  asked  me  if  I'd  walk  a  measure, 

(When  he  came  it  was  nearly  midnight) — 
I  said — "With  a  great  deal  of  pleasure," 

For  he  danced  like  a  perfect  delight. 
So  in  waltzing  and  polking  we  sported. 

Till  supper  sent  forth  its  perfume. 
And  I  went  down  to  table,  escorted 

By  "the  handsomest  man  in  the  room"— 
Yes,  I  went  down  to  table,  escorted 

By  "the  handsomest  man  in  the  room." 

I  thought  'twas  a  nice  situation, 

So  snugly  together  we  sat. 
And  in  hopes  of  a  pleasant  flirtation, 

I  tried  to  engage  him  in  chat. 

[103] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

But,  to  talk  of  himself  never  backward, 

He  strove  modest  airs  to  assume. 
For  he  told  me,  he  felt  very  aw^kward 

As  "the  handsomest  man  in  the  room" — 
Really,  really,  one  does  feel  so  awkward. 

As  "the  handsomest  man  in  the  room!" 

Thought  I — "This  is  really  too  stupid! 

Your  good  looks  are  very  well  known. 
But  you  ought  to  know.  Grenadier  Cupid, 

That  I'd  much  rather  hear  of  my  own." 
Yet  should  he  reform  in  this  one  thing 

(Of  which  there  are  hopes,  I  presume), 
We  still  may  contrive  to  make  something 

Of  the  handsomest  man  in  the  room. 
Yes,  we  still  may  contrive  to  make  something 

Of  the  handsomest  man  in  the  room. 

William  Macquorn  Rankine. 


THE  LAWYER'S  INVOCATION  TO  SPRING 

WHEREAS,  on  certain  boughs  and  sprays 
Now  divers  birds  are  heard  to  sing. 
And  sundry  flowers  their  heads  upraise, 
Hail  to  the  coming  on  of  Spring! 

The  songs  of  those  said  birds  arouse 
The  memory  of  our  youthful  hours. 

As  green  as  those  said  sprays  and  boughs, 
As  fresh  and  sweet  as  those  said  flowers. 

[  104  1 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

The  birds  aforesaid^ — happy  pairs — 

Love,  'mid  the  aforesaid  boughs,  inshrines 

In  freehold  nests;   themselves  their  heirs. 
Administrators,  and  assigns. 

O  busiest  term  of  Cupid's  Court, 

Where  tender  plaintiffs  actions  bring, — 

Season  of  frolic  and  of  sport. 

Hail,  as  aforesaid,  coming  Spring! 

Henry  Howard  Brownell. 


A  TERRIBLE  INFANT 

1  RECOLLECT  a  nurse  call'd  Ann 
Who  carried  me  about  the  grass. 
And  one  fine  day  a  fine  young  man 
Came  up  and  kiss'd  the  pretty  lass. 
She  did  not  make  the  least  objection! 
Thinks  I,  "Aha! 

When  I  can  talk  I'll  tell  Mamma"— 
And  that's  my  earliest  recollection. 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson. 


[105] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


LOULOU  AND  HER  CAT 

GOOD  pastry  is  vended 
In  Cite  Fadette; 
Maison  Pons  can  make  splendid 
Brioche  and  galette. 

M'sieu  Pons  is  so  fat  that 

He's  laid  on  the  shelf; 
Madame  had  a  Cat  that 

Was  fat  as  herself. 

Long  hair,  soft  as  satin, 

A  musical  purr, 
'Gainst  the  window  she'd  flatten 

Her  delicate  fur. 

I  drove  Lou  to  see  what 

Our  neighbours  were  at. 
In  rapture,  cried  she,  "What 

An  exquisite  cat! 

"What  whiskers!     She's  purring 
All  over.     Regale 
Our  eyes,  Puss,  by  stirring 
Thy  feathery  tail! 

"M'sieu  Pons,  will  you  sell  her?" 
"Ma  femme  est  sortie. 
Your  offer  I'll  tell  her; 
But  will  she?"  says  he. 
[io6] 


A   Vers  de  Soctete  A nthology 


Yet  Po77s  was  persuaded 
To  part  with  the  prize: 

(Our  bargain  was  aided, 
My  Lou,  by  your  eyes!) 

From  his  legitime  save  him,- 
My  spouse  I  prefer. 

For  I  warrant  his  gave  him 
Un  mauvais  quart  d'heure. 


I  am  giving  a  pleasant 

Grimalkin  to  Lou, 
— Ah,  Puss,  what  a  present 

I'm  giving  to  you! 

Frederick  Locker-Lam pson. 


PICCADILLY 

PICCADILLY!     Shops,    palaces,    bustle,    and 
breeze, 
The  whirring  of  wheels,  and  the  murmur  of 
trees; 
By  night  or  by  day,  whether  noisy  or  stilly. 
Whatever  my  mood  is,  I  love  Piccadilly. 

Wet   nights,   when   the   gas   on   the   pavement   is 

streaming, 
And  young   Love   is  watching,   and  old   Love   is 

dreaming, 
And  Beauty  is  whirling  to  conquest,  where  shrilly 
Cremona  makes  nimble  thy  toes,  Piccadilly! 

[  107  J 


A  Vers  de  Soctete  Anthology 

Bright  days,  when  a  stroll  is  my  afternoon  wont 
And  I  meet  all  the  people  I  do  know,  or  don't: 
Here   is  jolly  old   Brown,   and  his   fair   daughter 

Lillie— 
No  wonder,  young  Pilgrim,  you  like  Piccadilly! 

See  yonder  pair  riding,  how  fondly  they  saunter, 
She  smiles  on  her  poet,  whose  heart's  in  a  canter! 
Some  envy  her  spouse,  and  some  covet  her  filly, 
He  envies  them  both, — he's  an  ass,  Piccadilly! 

Now  were  I  such  a  bride,  with  a  slave  at  my  feet, 
I  would  choose  me  a  house  in  my  favourite  street; 
Yes  or  no — I  would  carry  my  point,  willy-nilly: 
If  "no," — pick  a  quarrel;   if  "yes"' — Piccadilly! 

From  Primrose  balcony,  long  ages  ago, 
"Old  Q."  sat  at  gaze,— who  now  passes  below? 
A  frolicsome  statesman,  the  Man  of  the  Day 
A  laughing  philosopher,  gallant  and  gay; 

Never  darling  of  fortune  more  manfully  trod, 
Full  of  years,  full  of  fame,  and  the  world  at  his 

nod. 
Can  the  thought  reach  his  heart,  and  then  leave  it 

more  chilly — • 
Old  P.  or  old  Q.,— "I  must  quit  Piccadilly?" 

Life  is  chequer'd;    a  patchwork  of  smiles  and  of 

frowns; 
We  value  its  ups,  let  us  muse  on  its  downs; 

[io8] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

There's  a  side  that  is  bright,  it  will  then  turn  us 

t'other, 
One  turn,  if  a  good  one,  deserves  yet  another. 
These    downs    are    delightful,    these    ups    are    not 

hilly,- 
Let  us  try  one  more  turn  ere  we  quit  Piccadilly. 

Frederick  Locker-Lamp  son. 


A  WORD  THAT  MAKES  US  LINGER 
{Written  in  the  visitor's  book  at  Gopsall) 

KIND  hostess  mine,  who  raised  the  latch 
And  welcomed  me  beneath  your  thatch, 
Who  makes  me  here  forget  the  pain, 
And  all  the  pleasures  of  Cockaigne, 
Now,  pen  in  hand,  and  pierced  with  woe, 
I.  write  one  word  before  I  go — 
A  word  that  dies  upon  my  lips 
While  thus  you  kiss  your  finger-tips. 

When  Black-eyed  Sue  was  rowed  to  land 
That  word  she  cried,  and  waved  her  hand — • 
Her  lily  hand! 

It  seems  absurd. 
But  I  can't  write  that  dreadful  word. 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson, 


[  109] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


MY  MISTRESS'S  BOOTS 

THEY  nearly  strike  me  dumb, 
And  I  tremble  when  they  come 
Pit-a-pat: 
This  palpitation  means 
That  these  Boots  are  Geraldine's — 
Think  of  that! 

Oh  where  did  hunter  win 
So  delectable  a  skin 

For  her  feet  ? 
You  lucky  little  kid, 
You  perish'd,  so  you  did, 

For  my  sweet! 

The  faery  stitching  gleams 
On  the  sides,  and  in  the  seams. 

And  it  shows 
That  the  Pixies  were  the  wags 
Who  tipt  these  funny  tags. 

And  these  toes. 

The  simpletons  who  squeeze 
Their  extremities  to  please 

Mandarins, 
Would  positively  flinch 
From  venturing  to  pinch 

Geraldine's. 


[no] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


What  soles  to  charm  an  elf! 
Had  Crusoe,  sick  of  self, 

Chanced  to  view 
One  printed  near  the  tide, 
Oh  how  hard  he  would  have  tried 

For  the  two! 

For  Gerry's  debonair. 
And  innocent  and  fair 

As  a  rose: 
She's  an  angel  in  a  frock, 
With  a  fascinating  cock 

To  her  nose. 

Cinderella's  lefts  and  rights 
To  Geraldine's  were  frights; 

And,  I  trow. 
The  damsel,  deftly  shod, 
Has  dutifully  trod 

Until  now. 

Come,  Gerry,  since  it  suits 
Such  a  pretty  Puss  (in  Boots) 

These  to  don. 
Set  this  dainty  hand  awhile 
On  my  shoulder,  dear,  and  I'll 

Put  them  on. 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson. 


[Ill] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT! 

THE  glow  and  the  glory  are  plighted 
To  darkness,  for  evening  is  come; 
The  lamp  in  Glebe  Cottage  is  lighted, 
The  birds  and  the  sheep-bells  are  dumb. 
I'm  alone  in  my  casement,  for  Pappy 

Is  summon'd  to  dinner  at  Kew: 
I'm  alone,  dearest  Fred,  but  I'm  happy — 
I'm  thinking  of  you! 

I  wish  you  were  here!     Were  I  duller 
Than  dull,  you'd  be  dearer  than  dear; 

I'm  drest  in  your  favourite  colour — 
Dear  Fred,  how  I  wish  you  were  here! 

I  am  wearing  my  lazuli  necklace, 
The  necklace  you  fasten'd  askew! 

Was  there  ever  so  rude  and  so  reckless 
A  darling  as  you  ? 

I  want  you  to  come  and  pass  sentence 
On  two  or  three  books  with  a  plot; 

Of  course  you  know  "Janet's  Repentance"? 
I'm  reading  Sir  Waverley  Scott, 

The  story  of  Edgar  and  Lucy, 

How  thrilling,  romantic,  and  true! 

The  master  (his  bride  was  a  goosey!) 
Reminds  me  of  you. 

They  tell  me  Cockaigne  has  been  crowning 

A  Poet  whose  garland  endures; 
It  was  you  who  first  spouted  me  Browning, — 

That  stupid  old  Browning  of  yours! 

[112] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

His  vogue  and  his  verve  are  alarming, 

I'm  anxious  to  give  him  his  due, 
But,  Fred,  he's  not  nearly  so  charming 
A  Poet  as  you! 

I  heard  how  you  shot  at  the  Beeches, 

I  saw  how  you  rode  Chanticleer, 
I  have  read  the  report  of  your  speeches, 

And  echoed  the  echoino;  cheer. 
There's  a  whisper  of  hearts  you  are  breaking, 

Dear  Fred,  I  believe  it,  I  do! 
Small  marvel  that  Fashion  is  making 
Her  idol  of  you! 

Alas  for  the  world,  and  its  dearly 

Bought  triumph,  its  fugitive  bliss; 
Sometimes  I  half  wish  I  was  merely 

A  plain  or  a  penniless  miss; 
But  perhaps  one  is  best  with  "a  measure 

Of  pelf,"  and  I'm  not  sorry,  too. 
That  I'm  pretty,  because  'tis  a  pleasure, 
My  darling,  to  you! 

Your  whim  is  for  frolic  and  fashion, 
Your  taste  is  for  letters  and  art; — 
This  rhyme  is  the  commonplace  passion 
That  glows  in  a  fond  woman's  heart: 
Lay  it  by  in  a  dainty  deposit 

For  relics- — we  all  have  a  few! 
Love,  some  day  they'll  print  it,  because  it 
Was  written  to  you! 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson. 

[113] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


THERE'S  A  TIME  TO  BE  JOLLY 

THERE'S  a  time  to  be  jolly,  a  time  to  repent, 
A  season  for  folly,  a  season  for  Lent, 
The  first  as  the  worst  we  too  often  regard; 
The  rest  as  the  best,  but  our  judgment  is  hard. 

There  are  snows  in  December  and  Roses  in  June, 
There's    darkness    at    midnight    and    sunshine    at 

noon; 
But,  were  there  no  sorrow,  no  storm-cloud  or  rain, 
Who'd  care  for  the  morrow  with  beauty  again. 

The  world  is  a  picture  both  gloomy  and  bright, 
And  grief  is  the  shadow  and  pleasure  the  light. 
And  neither  should  smother  the  general  tone: 
For  where  were  the  other  if  either  were  gone  ? 

The  valley  is  lovely;   the  mountain  is  drear. 
Its  summit  is  hidden  in  mist  all  the  year; 
But  gaze  from  the  heaven,  high  over  all  weather. 
And  mountain  and  valley  are  lovely  together. 

I  have  learned  to  love  Lucy,  though  faded  she  be; 
If  my  next  love  be  lovely,  the  better  for  me. 
By  the  end  of  next  summer,  I'll  give  you  my  oath, 
It  was  best,  after  all,  to  have  flirted  with  both. 

Charles  Godfrey  Leland. 


[114] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember, 
The  house  where  I  was  wed, 
And  the  Uttle  room  from  which,  that  night, 
My  smiling  bride  was  led; 
She  didn't  come  a  wink  too  soon. 

Nor  make  too  long  a  stay; 
But  now  I  often  wish  her  folks 
Had  kept  the  girl  away! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Her  dresses,  red  and  white. 
Her  bonnets  and  her  caps  and  cloaks, — • 

They  cost  an  awful  sight! 
The  "corner  lot"  on  which  I  built. 

And  where  my  brother  met 
At  first  my  wife,  one  washing-day, — 

That  man  is  single  yet! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Where  I  was  used  to  court. 
And  thought  that  all  of  married  life 

Was  just  such  pleasant  sport: 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then. 

No  care  was  on  my  brow; 
I  scarce  could  wait  to  shut  the  gate, — 

I'm  not  so  anxious  now! 

[115] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

My  dear  one's  smile  and  sigh; 
I  used  to  think  her  tender  heart 

Was  close  against  the  sky; 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  it  soothes  me  not 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  she  wasn't  got! 

Phosbe  Cary. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING 

I  MET  a  little  maid  one  day, 
All  in  the  bright  May  weather; 
She  danced,  and  brushed  the  dew  away 
As  lightly  as  a  feather. 
She  had  a  ballad  in  her  hand 

That  she  had  just  been  reading, 
But  was  too  young  to  understand: — 
That  ditty  of  a  distant  land, 

"The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding." 

She  tripped  across  the  meadow  grass, 

To  where  a  brook  was  flowing. 
Across  the  brook  like  wind  did  pass, — 

Wherever  flowers  were  growing 
Like  some  bewildered  child  she  flew, 

Whom  fairies  were  misleading: 
"Whose  butterfly,"  I  said,  "are  you? 
And  what  sweet  thing  do  you  pursue?" — 

"The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding!" 
[ii6] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

''I've  found  the  wild  rose  in  the  hedge, 
I've  found  the  tiger-lily, — 
The  blue  flag  by  the  vs^ater's  edge, — 

The  dancing  daffodilly, — 
King-cups  and  pansies, — every  flower 

Except  the  one  I'm  needing; — 
Perhaps  it  grows  in  some  dark  bower, 
And  opens  at  a  later  hour, — 
,This  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding." 

"I  wouldn't  look  for  it,"  I  said, 

"For  you  can  do  without  it: 
There's  no  such  flower."     She  shook  her  head; 

"But  I  have  read  about  it!" 
I  talked  to  her  of  bee  and  bird, 

But  she  was  all  unheeding: 
Her  tender  heart  was  strangely  stirred. 
She  harped  on  that  unhappy  word, — 
"The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding!" 

"My  child,"  I  sighed,  and  dropped  a  tear, 

"I  would  no  longer  mind  it; 
You'll  find  it  some  day,  never  fear, 

For  all  of  us  must  find  it! 
I  found  it  many  a  year  ago. 

With  one  of  gentle  breeding; 
You  and  the  little  lad  you  know, — 
I  see  why  you  are  weeping  so, — 

Your  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding!" 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


[117] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


THE  GOLD  ROOM 

AN    IDYL 

THEY  come  from  mansions  far  up-town, 
And  from  their  country  villas, 
And  some,  Charybdis'  gulf  whirls  down, 
And  some  fall  into  Scylla's. 
Lo!  here  young  Paris  climbs  the  stairs 

As  if  their  slope  were  Ida's, 
And  here  his  golden  touch  declares 
The  ass's  ears  of  Midas. 

It  seems  a  Bacchic,  brawling  rout 

To  every  business-scorner. 
But  such,  methinks,  must  be  an  "out," 

Or  has  not  made  a  "corner." 
In  me  the  rhythmic  gush  revives; 

I  feel  a  classic  passion: 
We,  also,  lead  Arcadian  lives. 

Though  in  a  Broad-Street  fashion. 

Old  Battos,  here,  's  a  leading  bull, 

And  Diomed  a  bear  is, 
And  near  them,  shearing  bankers'  wool. 

Strides  the  Tiltonian  Charis; 
And  Atys,  there,  has  gone  to  smash. 

His  every  bill  protested. 
While  Cleon's  eyes  with  comfort  flash, — 

I  have  his  funds  invested! 
[ii8] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Mehercle!  'tis  the  same  thing  yet 

As  in  the  days  of  Pindar: 
The  Isthmian  race,  the  dust  and  sweat, 

The  prize — why,  what's  to  hinder  ? 
And  if  I  twang  my  lyre  at  times, 

They  did  so  then,  I  reckon; 
That  man's  the  best  at  modern  rhymes 

Whom  you  can  draw  a  check  on! 

Bayard  Taylor. 


W 


COMFORT 

HO  would  care  to  pass  his  life  away 

Of  the   Lotos-land   a   dreamful   deni- 


zen,— 
Lotos-islands  in  a  waveless  bay. 

Sung  by  Alfred  Tennyson  ? 

Who  would  care  to  be  a  dull  new-comer 
Far  across  the  wild  sea's  wide  abysses, 
Where,  about  the  earth's  three  thousandth  summer^ 
Passed  divine  Ulysses  ? 

Rather  give  me  coffee,  art,  a  book, 

From  my  windows  a  delicious  sea-view, 
Southdown  mutton,  somebody  to  cook, — 
"Music?" — I  believe  you. 

Strawberry  icebergs  in  the  summer  time, — ■ 
But  of  elm-wood  many  a  massive  splinter, 
Good  ghost  stories,  and  a  classic  rhyme, 
For  the  nights  of  winter. 

[119] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Now  and  then  a  friend  and  some  Sauterne, 

Now  and  then  a  haunch  of  Highland  venison, 
And  for  Lotos-land  I'll  never  yearn, 
Malgre  Alfred  Tennyson. 

Mortimer  Collins. 


A  SUMMER  SONG 

SUMMER  is  sweet,  ay!  summer  is  sweet, — 
Minna  mine  with  the  brown,  brown  eyes: 
Red  are  the  roses  under  his  feet. 
Clear  the  blue  of  his  windless  skies. 
Pleasant  it  is  in  a  boat  to  glide 

On  a  river  whose  ripples  to  ocean  haste, 
With  indolent  fingers  fretting  the  tide. 

And  an  indolent  arm  round  a  darling  waist — 
And  to  see  as  the  Western  purple  dies, 
Hesper  mirrored  in  brown,  brown  eyes. 

Summer  is  fleet,  ah!  summer  is  fleet, — 

Minna  mine  with  the  brown,  brown  eyes: 
Onward  travel  his  flying  feet, 

And  the  mystical  colours  of  autumn  rise. 
Clouds  will  gather  round  evening  star — 

Sorrow  may  silence  our  first  gay  rhyme, — 
The  river's  swift  ripples  flow  tardier  far 

Than  the  golden  minutes  of  love's  sweet  time: 
But  to  me,  whom  omnipotent  love  makes  wise. 
There's  endless  summer  in  brown,  brown  eyes. 

Mortimer  Collins. 

[  120] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


MY  AUNT'S  SPECTRE 

THEY  tell  me  (but  I  really  can't 
Imagine  such  a  rum  thing), 
It  is  the  phantom  of  my  Aunt, 
Who  ran  away — or  something. 

It  is  the  very  worst  of  bores: 
(My  Aunt  was  most  delightful). 

It  prowls  about  the  corridors, 
And  utters  noises  frightful. 

At  midnight  through  the  rooms  It  glides, 

Behaving  very  coolly, 
Our  hearts  all  throb  against  our  sides — 

The  lights  are  burning  bluely. 

The  lady,  in  her  living  hours. 
Was  the  most  charming  vixen 

That  ever  this  poor  sex  of  ours 
Delighted  to  play  tricks  on. 

Yes,  that's  her  portrait  on  the  wall. 
In  quaint  old-fangled  bodice: 

Her  eyes  are  blue — her  waist  is  small — • 
A  ghost!     Pooh,  pooh, — a  goddess! 

A  fine  patrician  shape,  to  suit 
My  dear  old  father's  sister — - 

Lips  softly  curved,  a  dainty  foot: 
Happy  the  man  that  kissed  her! 

[121] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Light  hair  of  crisp  irregular  curl 

Over  fair  shoulders  scattered — 
Egad,  she  was  a  pretty  girl, 

Unless  Sir  Thomas  flattered! 

And  who  the  deuce,  in  these  bright  days, 

Could  possibly  expect  her 
To  take  to  dissipated  ways 

And  plague  us  as  a  spectre  ? 

Mortimer  Collins. 


A  CONCEIT 

OH,  touch  that  rose-bud!  it  will  bloom— 
My  lady  fair! 
A  passionate  red  in  dim  green  gloom, 
A  joy,  a  splendor,  a  perfume 
That  sleeps  in  air. 

You  touched  my  heart;   it  gave  a  thrill 

Just  like  a  rose 
That  opens  at  a  lady's  will; 
Its  bloom  is  always  yours,  until 

You  bid  it  close. 

Mortimer  Collins. 


[  122  ] 


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MARTIAL  IN  LONDON 

EXQUISITE  wines  and  comestibles, 
From  Slater,  and  Fortnum  and  Mason; 
Billiard,  ecarte,  and  chess  tables; 
Water  in  vast  marble  basin; 
Luminous  books  (not  voluminous) 
To  read  under  beech-trees  cacuminous; 
One  friend,  who  is  fond  of  a  distich, 
And  doesn't  get  too  syllogistic; 
A  valet,  who  knows  the  complete  art 
Of  service — a  maiden,  his  sweetheart: 
Give  me  these,  in  some  rural  pavilion. 
And  I'll  envy  no  Rothschild  his  million. 

Mortimer  Collins. 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  BALL 

AT  last!     O,  sensation  delicious! 
J-\  At  last,  it  is  here,  it  is  here! 

That  moment  supremely  auspicious 
In  the  joUiest  ball  of  the  year. 

It  is  all  as  I  dreamt  it  would  happen — • 
The  rooms  grown  oppressive  with  heat. 

And  my  darling,  alarm'd  with  the  crowding. 
Suggesting  a  timely  retreat. 

[  123  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

"Not  there;    not  among  the  exotics; 

I  faint  with  that  fragrance  of  theirs. 
Let  us  go — it  will  be  so  refreshing — • 

And  find  out  a  seat  on  the  stairs." 


How  dear  are  the  lips  that  could  utter 

Such  exquisite  music  as  this! 
How  I  listen'd,  my  heart  all  a-flutter, 

Assenting,  transported  with  bliss! 

All  the  house  with  the  dancers  is  throbbing, 
The  music  seems  born  of  the  air: 

O,  joy  of  all  joy  the  extremest. 
To  sit,  as  I  sit,  on  a  stair! 


To  sit,  and  to  gaze  on  my  darling. 
Enraptured  in  thrilling  delight. 

As  I  think,  "Never  face  could  be  fairer, 
Nor  eyes  half  so  tenderly  bright." 

It  is  all  as  I  knew  it  would  happen. 
Yet,  no;    there  is  something  I  miss — 

The  eloquent  words  I  intended 
To  speak  in  a  moment  like  this. 

They  were  tender,  and  soft,  and  poetic, 
And  I  thought,  "As  I  timidly  speak. 

She  will  smile,  and  a  blush  sympathetic 
Will  crimson  the  rose  in  her  cheek 

[  i^M  ] 


>> 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Jnthology 


And  now  that  we  sit  here  together, 

I  only — do  all  that  I  can — ■ 
Converse  on  the  ball  and  the  weather, 

While  she  opens  and  closes  her  fan. 

What  I  thought  to  have  said  seems  audacious, 

Her  ear  it  would  surely  offend; 
She  would  turn  from  me,  no  longer  gracious, 

And  frown  my  delight  to  an  end. 

Far  better  to  talk  of  the  weather, 

Or  ponder  in  rapture  supreme: 
'Tis  so  joyous  to  sit  here  together, 

So  pleasant  to  wake  and  to  dream! 

Contented,  long  hours  we  could  measure. 

Forgetting,  forgotten  by  all; 
Nor  envy  the  dancers  their  pleasure 

For  ours  is  the  best  of  the  ball. 

WiUiatn  Sawyer. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES 

{Translation  from  Francois  Fillon,  1450) 

TELL  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 
Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman  ? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 
Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman  ? 

[125] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human  ?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun. 

For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween. 
Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on  ? 

(From  love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen!) 

And  where,  I  pray  you  is  the  Queen 
Who  will'd  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sew'd  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine  ?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  Maine, — 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doom'd  and  burn'd'her  there, — 
Mother  of  God,  Where  are  they  then  ?  .  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  weak,  fair  lord, 
Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year. 

Save  with  thus  much  for  an  overword, — 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


[126] 


A   Vers  de  Societc  A nthology 
FEMININE  ARITHMETIC 

Laura 


ON  me  he  shall  ne'er  put  a  ring, 
So,  mamma,  'tis  in  vain  to  take  trouble- 
For  I  was  but  eighteen  in  spring, 
While  his  age  exactly  is  double. 


Ma 


mma 


He's  but  in  his  thirty-sixth  year, 

Tall,  handsome,  good-natured  and  witty, 
And  should  you  refuse  him,  my  dear. 

May  you  die  an  old  maid  without  pity! 


Mura 


His  figure,  I  grant  you,  will  pass. 

And  at  present  he's  young  enough  plenty; 

But  when  I  am  sixty,  alas! 

Will  not  he  be  a  hundred  and  twenty  ? 

Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


[127] 


A   Vers  de  Soctete  Anthology 


I 


A  TRIFLE 

KNOW  not  why,  but  ev'n  to  me 
My  songs  seem  sweet  when  read  to  thee. 


Perhaps  in  this  the  pleasure  lies — • 
I  read  my  thoughts  within  thine  eyes. 

And  so  dare  fancy  that  my  art 
May  sink  as  deeply  as  thy  heart. 

Perhaps  I  love  to  make  my  words 
Sing  round  thee  like  so  many  birds, 

Or,  Maybe,  they  are  only  sweet 
As  they  seem  offerings  at  thy  feet. 

Or  haply,  Lily,  when  I  speak, 

I  think,  perchance,  they  touch  thy  cheek, 

Or  with  a  yet  more  precious  bliss. 
Die  on  thy  red  lips  in  a  kiss. 

Each  reason  here — I  cannot  tell — 
Or  all  perhaps  may  solve  the  spell. 

But  if  she  watch  when  I  am  by, 
Lily  may  deeper  see  than  L 

Henry  Timrod. 
[128] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


FLIGHT 

0MEA40RY!  that  which  I  gave  thee 
To  guard  in  thy  garner  yestreen- 
Little  deeming  thou  e'er  could'st  behave 
thee 
Thus  basely — hath  gone  from  thee  clean! 
Gone,  fled,  as  ere  autumn  is  ended 

The  yellow  leaves  flee  from  the  oak — 
I  have  lost  it  forever,  my  splendid 
Original  joke. 

What  was  it  ?     I  know  I  was  brushing 
My  hair  when  the  notion  occurred: 

I  know  that  I  felt  myself  blushing 

As  I  thought,  "How  supremely  absurd! 

How  they'll  hammer  on  floor  and  on  table 
As  its  drollery  dawns  on  them — how 

They  will  quote  it" — I  wish  I  were  able 
To  quote  it  just  now. 

I  had  thought  to  lead  up  conversation 

To  the  subject^ — it's  easily  done — 
Then  let  off,  as  an  airy  creation 

Of  the  moment,  that  masterly  pun. 
Let  it  off,  with  a  flash  like  a  rocket's; 

In  the  midst  of  a  dazzled  conclave. 
Where  I  sat,  with  my  hands  in  my  pockets, 
The  only  one  grave, 

[  129  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

I  had  fancied  young  Titterton's  chuckles, 
And  old  Bottleby's  hearty  guffaws 

As  he  drove  at  my  ribs  with  his  knuckles, 
His  mode  of  expressing  applause: 

While  Jean  Bottleby — queenly  Miss  Janet — 
Drew  her  handkerchief  hastily  out, 

In  fits  at  my  slyness — ^what  can  it 
Have  all  been  about  ? 

I  know  'twas  the  happiest,  quaintest 

Combination  of  pathos  and  fun: 
But  I've  got  no  idea — the  faintest — 

Of  what  was  the  actual  pun. 
I  think  it  was  somehow  connected 

With  something  I'd  recently  read — 
Or  heard — or  perhaps  recollected 
On  going  to  bed. 

What  had  I  been  reading  .?     The  Standard: 
"Double  Bigamy";   "Speech  of  the  Mayor." 

And  later — eh  ?  yes!  I  meandered 

Through  some  chapters  of  "Vanity  Fair." 

How  it  fuses  the  grave  with  the  festive! 
Yet  e'en  there,  there  is  nothing  so  fine — 

So  playfully,  subtly  suggestive — 
As  that  joke  of  mine. 

Did  it  hinge  upon  "parting  asunder?" 
No,  I  don't  part  my  hair  with  my  brush. 

Was  the  point  of  it  "hair"  .?     Now  I  wonder! 
Stop  a  bit — I  shall  think  of  it — hush! 

[130] 


A   Vers  dc  Socictc  A  ntJiology 

There's  hare,  a  wild  animal — stuff! 

It  was  something  a  deal  more  recondite: 
Of  that  I  am  certain  enough; 

And  of  nothmg  beyond  it. 

Hair — locks!     There  are  probably  many 
Good  things  to  be  said  about  those. 

Give  me  time^ — that's  the  best  guess  of  any — 
*'Lock"  has  several  meanings,  one  knows. 

Iron  locks- — iron-gray-Iocks — a  "deadlock" — ■ 
That  would  set  up  an  everyday  wit: 

Then  of  course  there's  the  obvious  "wedlock"; 
But  that  wasn't  it. 

No!  mine  was  a  joke  for  the  ages; 

Full  of  intricate  meaning  and  pith; 
A  feast  for  your  scholars  and  sages — 

How  it  would  have  rejoiced  Sydney  Smith! 
'Tis  such  thoughts  that  ennoble  a  mortal; 

And,  singling  him  out  from  the  herd, 
Fling  wide  immortality's  portal— 

But  what  was  the  word  ? 

Ah  me!  'tis  a  bootless  endeavor. 

As  the  flight  of  a  bird  of  the  air 
Is  the  flight  of  a  joke — you  will  never 

See  the  same  one  again,  you  may  swear. 
'Twas  my  firstborn,  and  O  how  I  prized  it! 

My  darling,  my  treasure,  my  own! 
This  brain  and  none  other  devised  it — 
And  now  it  has  flown. 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley. 

[131] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


LOVE 

CANST  thou  love  me,  lady ? 
I've  not  learn'd  to  woo; 
Thou  art  on  the  shady 
Side  of  sixty,  too. 
Still  I  love  thee  dearly! 

Thou  hast  lands  and  pelf: 
But  I  love  thee  merely 
Merely  for  thyself. 

Wilt  thou  love  me,  fairest  ? 

Though  thou  art  not  fair; 
And  I  think  thou  wearest 

Someone-else's  hair. 
Thou  could'st  love,  though,  dearly; 

And,  as  I  am  told. 
Thou  art  very  nearly 

Worth  thy  weight  in  gold. 

Dost  thou  love  me,  sweet  one  ? 

Tell  me  that  thou  dost! 
Women  fairly  beat  one, 

But  I  think  thou  must. 
Thou  art  loved  so  dearly: 

I  am  plain,  but  then 
Thou  (to  speak  sincerely) 

Art  as  plain  again. 

[132] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Antholo 


gy 


Love  me,  bashful  fairy! 

I've  an  empty  purse: 
And  I've  "moods,"  which  vary; 

Mostly  for  the  worst. 
Still,  I  love  thee  dearly: 

Though  I  make  (I  feel) 
Love  a  little  queerly, 

I'm  as  true  as  steel. 

Love  me,  swear  to  love  me 

(As  you  know,  they  do) 
By  yon  heaven  above  me 

And  its  changeless  blue. 
Love  me,  lady,  dearly, 

If  you'll  be  so  good; 
Though  I  don't  see  clearly 

On  what  ground  you  should. 

Love  me — ah!  or  love  me 

Not,  but  be  my  bride! 
Do  not  simply  shove  me 

(So  to  speak)  aside! 
P'raps  it  would  be  dearly 

Purchased  at  the  price; 
But  a  hundred  yearly 

Would  be  very  nice. 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley. 


[  ^33  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


SINCE  WE  PARTED 

SINCE  we  parted  yester  eve, 
I  do  love  thee,  love,  believe. 
Twelve  times  dearer,  twelve  hours  longer, 
One  dream  deeper,  one  night  stronger. 
One  sun  surer, — thus  much  more 
Than  I  loved  thee,  love,  before. 

Owen  Meredith. 


A  KISS— BY  MISTAKE 

UPON  the  railway  train  We  met — 
She  had  the  softest,  bluest  eyes, 
A  face  you  never  could  forget — 
"Sixteen"  with  all  that  that  implies. 
I  knew  her  once  a  little  girl. 

And  meeting  now  a  mutual  friend, 
Our  thoughts  and  hearts  got  in  a  whirl; 
We  talked  for  miles  without  much  end. 

I  threw  my  arms  around  the  seat 

Where,  just  in  front,  she  sideways  sat, 
Her  melting  eyes  and  face  to  meet — 

(And  no  one  wondered  much  at  that), 
For  soon  the  station  where  she  left 

Would  on  the  sorrowing  vision  rise, 
And  I  at  least  should  feel  bereft; 

I  thought  a  tear  stood  in  her  eyes. 

[134] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 

She  was  but  kith,  not  kin  of  mine; 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  last  we  met, 
And  when  in  going  she  did  incline 

Her  face  'twas  natural  to  forget, 
It  seemed  so  like  a  child  I  knew — ■ 

I  met  her  halfway  by  mistake; 
And  coming  near  those  eyes  of  blue, 

She  gently  kissed  me — by  mistake! 

She  saw  her  error,  and  straightway  ran 

With  flaming  blushes,  rosy  red; 
I  should  not  be  one-half  a  man 

If  thoughts  of  wrong  came  in  my  head; 
In  fact,  I'd  take  that  very  train 

And  travel  daily  for  her  sake, 
If  she  would  only  come  again 

And  gently  kiss  me — by  mistake! 

Joel  Benton. 


F 


A  GAME  OF  FIVES 

IVE  little  girls,  of  Five,  Four,  Three,  Two, 

One: 
Rolling  on  the   hearthrug,   full  of  tricks  and 
fun. 


Five  rosy  girls,  in  years  from  Ten  to  Six: 
Sitting  down  to  lessons — no  more  time  for  tricks. 

[135] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A  nth  oh 


'gy 


Five  growing  girls,  from  Fifteen  to  Eleven: 
Music,  Drawing,  Languages,  and  food  enough  for 
seven! 

Five  winsome  girls,  from  Twenty  to  Sixteen: 
Each  young  man  that  calls,  I  say  "Now  tell  me 
which  you  mean!" 

Five  dashing  girls,  the  youngest  Twenty-one: 
But,  if  nobody  proposes,  what  is  there  to  be  done  ? 

Five  showy  girls — but  Thirty  is  an  age 
When  girls  may  be  engaging,  but  they  somehow 
don't  engage. 

Five  dressy  girls,  of  Thirty-one  or  more: 
So  gracious  to  the  shy  young  men  they  snubbed  so 
much  before! 

?)C  S]£  ^  ^  3(*  Jf* 

Five  passe  g\r\s — Their  age  ?     Well,  never  mind! 
We  jog  along  together,  like  the  rest  of  human  kind: 
But  the  quondam  "careless  bachelor"  begins  to 

think  he  knows 
The   answer  to   that   ancient   problem   "how   the 

money  goes!" 

Lewis  Carroll. 


[136] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 


A  VALENTINE 

{Sent  to  a  friend  who  complained  that  I  was  glad 
enough  to  see  him  when  he  came,  but  didn  t  seem  to 
miss  him  if  he  stayed  away.) 

AND  cannot  pleasures,  while  they  last, 
Be  actual  unless,  when  past, 
They  leave  us  shuddering  and  aghast, 
With  anguish  smarting  ? 
And  cannot  friends  be  firm  and  fast. 
And  yet  bear  parting  ? 

And  must  I  then,  at  Friendship's  call, 
Calmly  resign  the  little  all 
(Trifling,  I  grant,  it  is  and  small) 

I  have  of  gladness. 
And  lend  my  being  to  the  thrall 

Of  gloom  and  sadness  ? 

And  think  you  that  I  should  be  dumb, 
And  full  dolorum  omnium, 
Excepting  when  you  choose  to  come 

And  share  my  dinner  ? 
At  other  times  be  sour  and  glum 

And  daily  thinner  ? 

Must  he  then  only  live  to  weep. 

Who'd  prove  his  friendship  true  and  deep  ? 

By  day  a  lonely  shadow  creep, 

[  137  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


At  night-time  languish, 
Oft  raising  in  his  broken  sleep 
The  moan  of  anguish. 

The  lover,  if  for  certain  days 
His  fair  one  be  denied  his  gaze, 
Sinks  not  in  grief  and  wild  amaze, 

But,  wiser  wooer 
He  spends  the  time  in  writing  lays. 

And  posts  them  to  her. 

And  if  the  verse  flow  free  and  fast, 
Till  even  the  poet  is  aghast, 
A  touching  Valentine  at  last 

The  post  shall  carry. 
When  thirteen  days  are  gone  and  past 

Of  February. 

Farewell,  dear  friend,  and  when  we  meet, 
In  desert  w^aste  or  crowded  street. 
Perhaps  before  this  week  shall  fleet, 

Perhaps  to-morrow, 
I  trust  to  find  your  heart  the  seat 

Of  wasting  sorrow. 

Lewis  Carroll. 


[138] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


THE  WEDDING  DAY 


SWEETHEART,  name  the  day  for  me 
When  we  two  shall  wedded  be. 
Make  it  ere  another  moon, 
While  the  meadows  are  in  tune, 
And  the  trees  are  blossoming. 
And  the  robins  mate  and  sing. 
Whisper,  love,  and  name  a  day 
In  this  merry  month  of  May. 

No,  no,  no, 
You  shall  not  escape  me  so! 
Love  will  not  forever  wait; 
Roses  fade  when  gathered  late. 

II 

Fie,  for  shame.  Sir  Malcontent! 
How  can  time  be  better  spent 
Than  in  wooing  ?     I  would  wed 
When  the  clover  blossoms  red, 
When  the  air  is  full  of  bliss. 
And  the  sunshine  like  a  kiss. 
If  you're  good  I'll  grant  a  boon: 
You  shall  have  me,  sir,  in  June. 

Nay,  nay,  nay, 
Girls  for  once  should  have  their  way! 
If  you  love  me,  wait  till  June: 
Rosebuds  wither,  picked  too  s>oon. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

[  139  ] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


EDGED  TOOLS 

WELL,  Helen,  quite  two  years  have  flown 
Since  that  enchanted,  dreamy  night, 
When  you  and  I  were  left  alone, 
And  wondered  whether  they  were  right 
Who  said  that  each  the  other  loved; 

And  thus  debating,  yes  and  no, 
And  half  in  earnest,  as  it  proved, 
We  bargained  to  pretend  'twas  so. 

Two  sceptic  children  of  the  world, 

Each  with  a  heart  engraven  o'er 
With  broken  love-knots,  quaintly  curled, 

Of  hot  flirtations  held  before; 
Yet,  somehow,  either  seemed  to  find. 

This  time,  a  something  more  akin 
To  that  young,  natural  love, — the  kind 

Which  comes  but  once,  and  breaks  us  in. 

What  sweetly  stolen  hours  we  knew. 

And  frolics  perilous  as  gay! 
Though  lit  in  sport.  Love's  taper  grew 

More  bright  and  burning  day  by  day. 
We  knew  each  heart  was  only  lent. 

The  other's  ancient  scars  to  heal: 
The  very  thought  a  pathos  blent 

With  all  the  mirth  we  tried  to  feel. 

[  140] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

How  bravely  when  the  time  to  part 

Came  with  the  wanton  season's  close, 
Though  nature  with  our  mutual  art 

Had  mingled  more  than  either  chose, 
We  smothered  Love,  upon  the  verge 

Of  folly,  in  one  last  embrace, 
And  buried  him  without  a  dirge, 

And  turned,  and  left  his  resting-place. 

Yet  often  (tell  me  what  it  means!) 

His  spirit  steals  upon  me  here, 
Far,  far  away  from  all  the  scenes 

His  little  lifetime  held  so  dear; 
He  comes:    I  hear  a  mystic  strain 

In  which  some  tender  memory  lies; 
I  dally  with  your  hair  again; 

I  catch  the  gleam  of  violet  eyes. 

Ah,  Helen!   how  have  matters  been 

Since  those  rude  obsequies,  with  you  ^ 
Say,  is  my  partner  in  the  sin 

A  sharer  of  the  penance  too  ? 
Again  the  vision's  at  my  side: 

I  drop  my  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  wonder  if  he  really  died, 

And  why  his  spirit  will  not  rest. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


[141] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A  nthology 


WITCHCRAFT 

OUR  great-great-grandpapas  had  schooled 
'  Your  fancies,  Lita,  were  you  born 

In  days  when  Cotton  Mather  ruled 
And  damask  petticoats  were  worn! 
Your  pretty  ways,  your  mocking  air, 

Had  passed,  mayhap,  for  Satan's  wiles — • 
As  fraught  with  danger,  then  and  there, 
To  you,  as  now  to  us  your  smiles. 

Why  not  ?     Were  inquest  to  begin, 

The  tokens  are  not  far  to  seek: 
Item — the  dimple  of  your  chin; 

Item — that  freckle  on  your  cheek. 
Grace  shield  his  simple  soul  from  harm 

Who  enters  yon  flirtation  niche. 
Or  trusts  in  whispered  counter-charm, 

Alone  with  such  a  parlous  witch! 

Your  fan  a  wand  is,  in  disguise; 

It  conjures,  and  we  straight  are  drawn 
Within  a  witches'  Paradise 

Of  music,  germans,  roses,  lawn. 
So  through  the  season,  where  you  go, 

All  else  than  Lita  men  forget: 
One  needs  no  second-sight  to  know 

That  sorcery  is  rampant  yet. 

[  142  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A  nthology 


Now,  since  the  bars  no  more  await 

Fair  maids  that  practise  sable  arts, 
Take  heed,  while  I  pronounce  the  fate 

Of  her  who  thus  ensnares  men's  hearts: 
In  time  you  shall  a  wizard  meet 

With  spells  more  potent  than  your  own, 
And  you  shall  know  your  master,  Sweet, 

And  for  these  witcheries  atone. 

For  you  at  his  behest  shall  wear 

A  veil,  and  seek  with  him  the  church, 
And  at  the  altar  rail  forswear 

The  craft  that  left  you  in  the  lurch; 
But  oft  thereafter,  musing  long. 

With  smile  and  sigh,  and  conscience-twitch, 
You  shall  too  late  confess  the  wrong — • 

A  captive  and  repentant  witch. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


TOUJOURS  AMOUR 

PRITHEE  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 
At  what  age  doth  love  begin  ? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen, 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets. 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair; 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win  ? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin! 

[X43] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A iithology 


"Oh!"  the  rosy  lips  reply, 
"I  can't  tell  you  if  I  try. 
'Tis  so  long  I  can't  remember: 
Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I!" 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face, 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace  ? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire. 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire  ? 
Can  its  embers  burn  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow  ? 
Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 
Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless  ? 
When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 
Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face  ? 

"Ah!"  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 

"Youth  may  pass,  and  strength  may  die; 

But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken: 

Ask  some  older  sage  than  I!" 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


T 


DICTUM    SAPIENTI 

HAT  'tis  well  to  be  off  with  the  old  love 
Before  one  is  on  with  the  new 

Has  somehow  passed  into  a  proverb, — 
But  I  never  have  found  it  true. 

[  144] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

No  love  can  be  quite  like  the  old  love, 
Whate'er  may  be  said  for  the  new — 

And  if  you  dismiss  me,  my  darling, 
You  may  come  to  this  thinking,  too. 

Were  the  proverb  not  w^Iser  if  mended. 

And  the  fickle  and  wavering  told 
To  be  sure  they're  on  with  the  new  love 

Before  they  are  off  with  the  old  ? 

Charles  Henry  Webb. 


UNDOWERED 

THOU  hast  not  gold  ?     Why,  this  is  gold 
All  clustering  round  thy  forehead  white; 
And  were  it  weighed,  and  were  it  told, 
I  could  not  say  its  worth  to-night! 

Thou  hast  not  wit  ?     Why,  what  is  this 
Wherewith  thou  capturest  many  a  wight. 

Who  doth  forget  a  tongue  is  his. 
As  I  well-nigh  forgot  to-night  ? 

Nor  station?     Well,  ah,  well!  I  own 
Thou  hast  no  place  assured  thee  quite; 

So  now  I  raise  thee  to  a  throne; 

Begin  thy  reign,  my  Queen,  to-night. 

Harriet  McEwen  Kimball. 


[145] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


THE  LOVE-KNOT 

TYING  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in; 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  floating  hair, 
For  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

They  were  strolling  together  up  the  hill, 
Where  the  wind  comes  blowing  merry  and  chill; 
And  it  blew  the  curls,  a  frolicsome  race, 
All  over  the  happy  peach-colored  face. 
Till,  scolding  and  laughing,  she  tied  them  in. 
Under  her  beautiful  dimpled  chin. 

And  it  blew  a  color,  bright  as  the  bloom 
Of  the  pinkest  fuchsia's  tossing  plume, 
All  over  the  cheeks  of  the  prettiest  girl 
That  ever  imprisoned  a  romping  curl, 
Or,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
Tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

Steeper  and  steeper  grew  the  hill; 
Madder,  merrier,  chillier  still 
The  western  wind  blew  down    and  played 
The  wildest  tricks  with  the  little  maid. 
As,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 
[  146  ] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 


O  western  wind,  do  you  think  it  was  fair 

To  play  such  tricks  with  her  floating  hair  ? 

To  gladly,  gleefully  do  your  best 

To  blow  her  against  the  young  man's  breast, 

Where  he  as  gladly  folded  her  in, 

And  kissed  her  mouth  and  her  dimpled  chin  ? 

Ah!  EUery  Vane,  you  little  thought, 
An  hour  ago,  when  you  besought 
This  country  lass  to  walk  with  you, 
After  the  sun  had  dried  the  dew. 
What  perilous  danger  you'd  be  in. 
As  she  tied  her  bonnet  under  her  chin! 

Nora  Perry. 


VERS  DE  SOCIETE 

THERE,  pay  it,  James!  'tis  cheaply  earned; 
My  conscience!  how  one's  cabman  charges! 
But  never  mind,  so  I'm  returned 
Safe  to  my  native  street  of  Clarges. 
I've  just  an  hour  for  one  cigar 

(What  style  these  Reinas  have,  and  what  ash!) 
One  hour  to  watch  the  evening  star 
With  just  one  Cura^oa-and-potash. 

Ah  me!  that  face  beneath  the  leaves 
And  blossoms  of  its  piquant  bonnet! 

Who  would  have  thought  that  forty  thieves 
Of  years  had  laid  their  fingers  on  it! 

[  147  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Antholo gy 

Could  you  have  managed  to  enchant 
At  Lord's  to-day  old  lovers  simple. 

Had  Robber  Time  not  played  gallant, 
And  spared  you  every  youthful  dimple! 

That  Robber  bold,  like  courtier  Claude, 

Who  danced  the  gay  coranto  jesting, 
By  yolir  bright  beauty  charmed  and  aw^ed, 

Has  bowed  and  passed  you  unmolesting. 
No  feet  of  many-wintered  crows 

Have  traced  about  your  eyes  a  wrinkle; 
Your  sunny  hair  has  thawed  the  snows 

That  other  heads  with  silver  sprinkle. 

I  wonder  if  that  pair  of  gloves 

I  won  of  you  you'll  ever  pay  me! 
I  wonder  if  our  early  loves 

Were  wise  or  foolish,  Cousin  Amy? 
I  wonder  if  our  childish  tiff 

Now  seems  to  you,  like  me,  a  blunder! 
I  wonder  if  you  wonder  if 

I  ever  wonder  if  you  wonder. 

I  wonder  if  you'd  think  it  bliss 

Once  more  to  be  the  fashion's  leader! 
I  wonder  if  the  trick  of  this 

Escapes  the  unsuspecting  reader! 
And  as  for  him  who  does  or  can 

Delight  in  it,  I  wonder  whether 
He  knows  that  almost  any  man 

Could  reel  it  off  by  yards  together! 

[  148  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

I  wonder  if — What's  that  ?     A  knock  ? 

Is  that  you,  James  ?     Eh  ?     What  ?     God  bless 
me! 
How  time  has  flown!     It's  eight  o'clock, 

And  here's  my  fellow  come  to  dress  me. 
Be  quick,  or  I  shall  be  the  guest 

Whom  Lady  Mary  never  pardons; 
I  trust  you,  James,  to  do  your  best 

To  save  the  soup  at  Grosvenor  Gardens. 

H.  D.  Traill. 


A  LETTER  OF  ADVICE 

WHEN  you  love — as  all  men  will — 
Sing  the  theme  of  yOur  devotion, 
Sue — and  vow — and  worship  still — • 
Overflow  with  deep  emotion, 
Bow  to  Cupid's  sweet  decrees, 

Lightly  wear  the  happy  fetter. 
Bend  the  knee  and  plead!     But  please, 
Do  not  write  your  love  a  letter! 

Ah!  most  tempting  it  may  be: 

Ink  flows  free — and  pens  will  write. 
And  your  passion  fain  you'd  see 

Plainly  mapped  in  black  and  white. 
Yet  refrain  from  shedding  ink, 

If  you  can : — 'tis  wiser — better. 
Ere  you  pen  a  sentence,  think! 

Do  not  write  your  love  a  letter. 

[  149  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Hearts  may  cool,  and  views  may  change — ■ 

Other  scenes  may  seem  inviting, 
But  a  heart  can't  safely  range 

If  committed  'tis  to  writing. 
What  you've  written  is  a  writ. 

Holds  you  closely  as  a  debtor. 
Will  she  spare  you  ?     Not  a  bit! 

Do  not  write  your  love  a  letter! 

Think  of  Breach  of  Promise  cause, 

Think  of  barristers  provoking, 
Leading  you  to  slips  and  flaws, 

Turning  all  your  love  to  joking. 
If  you've  written  aught,  they'll  be 

Safe  to  find  it  as  a  setter — 
Then  you'll  wish  you'd  hearkened  me — 

Do  not  write  your  love  a  letter! 

Oh,  those  letters  read  in  Court! 

How  the  tender  things  seem  stupid! 
How  deep  feeling  seems  but  sport! 

How  young  Momus  trips  up  Cupid! 
Take  my  warning  then — or  soon. 

O'er  your  folly  you'll  be  fretter, 
Saying,  ''Why,  poor,  foolish  spoon, 

Did  I  write  my  love  a  letter?" 

Thomas  Hood,  "Jr. 


[150] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


B 


AT  THE  LATTICE 

EHIND  the  curtain, 

With  glance  uncertain, 
Peeps  pet  Florence  as  I  gaily  ride; 
Half  demurely. 
But,  though  purely 
Most,  most  surely 
Wishing  she  were  riding,  riding  by  my  side. 

In  leafy  alleys, 

Where  sunlight  dallies. 
Pleasant  were  it,  bonnie,  to  be  riding  rein  by  rein; 

And  where  summer  tosses, 

All  about  in  bosses. 

Velvet  verdant  mosses. 
Still  more  pleasant,  surely,  to  dismount  again. 

O  thou  Beauty! 

Hanging  ripe  and  fruity 
At  the  muslined  lattice  in  the  drooping  eve, 

Whisper  from  the  casement 

If  that  blushing  face  meant, 

"At  the  cottage  basement. 
Gallant,  halt,  I   come  to  thee;    I  come  to  never 
leave. " 

But  If  those  coy  lashes 
Stir  for  whoso  dashes 
Past  the  scented  window  in  the  fading  light, 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Close  the  lattice,  sweetest; 
Darkness  were  discreetest; 
And,  with  bridle  fleetest, 
I  will  gallop  onwards,  unattended  through  the  night. 

Alfred  Austin. 


FRENCH  WITH  A  MASTER 

TEACH  you  French  ?     I  will,  my  dear! 
Sit  and  con  your  lesson  here. 
What  did  Adam  say  to  Eve  I 

Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 

Don't  pronounce  the  last  word  long; 
Make  it  short  to  suit  the  song; 
Rhyme  it  to  your  flowing  sleeve, 
Aimer,  aimer;  c  est  a  vivre. 

Sleeve,  I  said,  but  what's  the  harm 
If  I  really  meant  your  arm  ? 
Mine  shall  twine  it  (by  your  leave), 
Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 

Learning  French  is  full  of  slips; 

Do  as  I  do  with  the  lips; 

Here's  the  right  way,  you  perceive, 

Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 

French  is  always  spoken  best 
Breathing  deeply  from  the  chest; 
Darling,  does  your  bosom  heave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 

[152] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Now,  my  dainty  little  sprite, 
Have  I  taught  your  lesson  right  ? 
Then  what  pay  shall  I  receive  ? 

Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 


Will  you  think  me  overbold 
If  I  linger  to  be  told 
Whether  you  yourself  believe 

Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 


Pretty  pupil,  when  you  say 
All  this  French  to  me  to-day, 
Do  you  mean  it,  or  deceive  ? 

Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 

Tell  me,  may  I  understand. 
When  I  press  your  little  hand. 
That  our  hearts  together  cleave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 

Have  you  in  your  tresses  room 
For  some  orange-buds  to  bloom  ? 
May  I  such  a  garland  weave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 

Or,  if  I  presume  too  much 
Teaching  French  by  sense  of  touch, 
Grant  me  pardon  and  reprieve! 

Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 

[153] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Sweetheart,  no!  you  cannot  go! 
Let  me  sit  and  hold  you  so; 
Adam  did  the  same  to  Eve, — 

Aimer,  aimer;  c'est  a  vivre. 

Theodore  Tilt  on. 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA 


T 


HE  cunning  hand  that  carved  this  face, 
A  httle  helmeted  Minerva — 
The  hand,  I  say,  ere  Phidias  wrought, 
Had  lost  its  subtle  skill  and  fervour. 


Who  was  he  ?     Was  he  glad  or  sad  ? 

Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion  ? 
Perchance  he  shaped  this  dainty  head 

For  some  brown  girl  that  Scorned  his  passion. 

But  he  is  dust:  we  may  not  know 

His  happy  or  unhappy  story: 
Nameless  and  dead  these  thousand  years. 

His  work  outlives  him — there's  his  glory! 

Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 

Beneath  a  lava-buried  city; 
The  thousand  summers  came  and  went, 

With  neither  haste,  nor  hate,  nor  pity. 

The  years  wiped  out  the  man,  but  left 

The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom. 
Till  some  Visconti  dug  it  up, 

To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel's  bosom. 

[  154  ] 


A   Vers  dc  Societe  Anthology 

O  Roman  brother!  see  how  Time 

Your  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded; 

See  how  your  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come,  at  last,  to  be  rewarded. 

Who  would  not  suffer  slights  of  men 
And  pangs  of  hopeless  passion  also, 

To  have  his  carven  agate-stone 
On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


THE  LUNCH 

A  GOTHIC  window,  where  a  damask  curtain 
Made  the  blank  daylight  shadowy  and  un- 
certain : 
A  slab  of  agate  ore  four  Eagle-talons 
Held  trimly  up  and  neatly  taught  to  balance: 
A  porcelain  dish,  o'er  which  in  many  a  cluster 
Black  grapes  hung  down,  dead  ripe  and  without 

lustre: 
A  melon  cut  in  thin,  delicious  slices: 
A  cake  that  seemed  mosaic-work  in  spices: 
Two  China  cups  with  golden  tulips  sunny, 
And  rich  inside  with  chocolate  like  honey: 
And  she  and  I  the  banquet-scene  completing 
With  dreamy  words — -and  very  pleasant  eating. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


[155] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Antholo 


gy 


THE  WITCH  IN  THE  GLASS 

MY  mother  says  I  must  not  pass 
Too  near  that  glass; 
She  is  afraid  that  I  will  see 
A  little  witch  that  looks  like  me, 
With  a  red,  red  mouth  to  whisper  low 
The  very  thing  I  should  not  know!" 

'Alack  for  all  your  mother's  care! 

A  bird  of  the  air, 
A  wistful  wind,  or  (I  suppose) 
Sent  by  some  hapless  boy — a  rose. 
With  breath  too  sweet,  will  whisper  low 
The  very  thing  you  should  not  know!" 

Sarah  Morgan  Bryan  Piatt. 


TO  PHCEBE 

"  /">  ENTLE,  modest,  little  flower, 
It  Sweet  epitome  of  May, 

Love  me  but  for  half-an-hour. 
Love  me,  love  me,  little  Fay." 
Sentences  so  fiercely  flaming 
In  your  tiny  shell-like  ear, 
I  should  alv/ays  be  exclaiming, 
If  I  loved  you,  Phoebe,  dear! 

[  156  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

'Smiles  that  thrill  from  any  distance 

Shed  upon  me  while  I  sing! 
Please  ecstaticise  existence; 

Love  me,  oh,  thou  fairy  thing!" 
Words  like  these,  outpouring  sadly, 

You'd  perpetually  hear, 
If  I  loved  you,  fondly,  madly; — • 

But  I  do  not,  Phoebe,  dear! 

William  Schwenck  Gilbert. 


MY  LOVE  AND  MY  HEART 

OH,  the  days  were  ever  shiny 
When  I  ran  to  meet  my  love; 
When  I  press'd  her  hand  so  tiny 
Through  her  tiny  tiny  glove. 
Was  I  very  deeply  smitten  ? 

Oh,  I  loved  like  anything! 
But  my  love  she  is  a  kitten, 

And  my  heart's  a  ball  of  ^tring. 

She  was  pleasingly  poetic. 

And  she  loved  my  little  rhymes; 
For  our  tastes  were  sympathetic. 

In  the  old  and  happy  times. 
Oh,  the  ballads  I  have  written. 

And  have  taught  my  love  to  sing! 
But  my  love  she  is  a  kitten. 

And  my  heart's  a  ball  of  string. 

[157] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Would  she  listen  to  my  offer, 

On  my  knees  I  would  impart 
A  sincere  and  ready  proffer 

Of  my  hand  and  of  my  heart. 
And  below  her  dainty  mitten 

I  would  fix  a  wedding  ring — 
But  my  love  she  is  a  kitten, 

And  my  heart's  a  ball  of  string. 

Take  a  warning,  happy  lover, 

From  the  moral  that  I  show; 
Or  too  late  you  may  discover 

What  I  learn'd  a  month  ago. 
We  are  scratch'd  or  we  are  bitten 

By  the  pets  to  whom  we  cling. 
Oh,  my  love  she  is  a  kitten. 

And  my  heart's  a  ball  of  string. 

Henry  S.  Leigh. 


TO  A  COUNTRY  COUSIN 

CRUEL  Cousin  Kate,  you  ask  me 
For  a  lyric  or  a  lay. 
How  tyrannical  to  task  me, 
Cousin  Kate,  in  such  a  way. 
Pardon  me,  I  pray,  and  pity — • 
(Oh,  do  anything  but  frown!) 
For  I  can't  be  wise  or  witty 
In  an  album  out  of  town 

[15S] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


No,  my  Pegasus  will  canter 

Only  here  on  civic  stones; 
In  the  country  I  instanter 

Come  to  grief  and  broken  bones. 
Be  it  mine  to  sing  the  city, 

Where  I  seek  my  mild  renown; — 
But  I  can't  be  wise  or  witty 

In  an  album  out  of  town. 

Small  my  power  and  small  my  will  is 

Rural  sympathies  to  win; 
Ludgate  my  sublimest  hill  is. 

And  my  fields  are  Lincoln's  Inn 
All  the  Muses  in  committee, 

Pouring  inspiration  down, 
Cannot  make  me  wise  or  witty 

In  an  album  out  of  town. 

Lonaon  life  in  many  phases 

I  describe  for  Cockney  friends; 
Lead  me  out  among  the  daisies 

And  my  versifying  ends. 
I  can  favor  with  a  ditty 

Jones,  and  Robinson,  and  Brown* 
But  I  can't  be  wise  or  witty 

In  an  album  out  of  town. 

Cousin,  hear  my  supplication; 

Give  me  somethino-  else  to  do. 
Is  there  aught  in  all  creation 

I  would  no*-  attempt  for  you  ? 

[159] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Ask  my  life,  my  cruel  Kitty: 

Bid  me  hang,  or  bid  me  drown; 
But  I  can't  be  wise  or  witty 

In  an  album  out  of  town. 

Henry  S.  Leigh. 


THE  FAMILY  FOOL 

OH!  a  private  buffoon  is  a  light-hearted  loon, 
If  you  listen  to  popular  rumour; 
From  morning  to  night  he's  so  joyous  and 
bright, 
And  he  bubbles  with  wit  and  good  humour! 
He's  so  quaint  and  so  terse,  both  in  prose  and  in 
verse; 
Yet  though  people  forgive  his  transgression. 
There  are  one  or  two  rules  that  all  Family  Fools 
Must  observe  if  they  love  their  profession. 
There  are  one  or  two  rules, 

Half-a-dozen,  maybe. 
That  all  family  fools. 
Of  whatever  degree, 
Must  observe,  if  they  love  their  profession. 

If  you  wish  to  succeed  as  a  jester,  you'll  need 
To  consider  each  person's  auricular: 

What  is  all  right  for  B.  would  quite  scandalize  C. 
(For  C.  is  so  very  particular); 

And  D.  may  be  dull,  and  E.'s  very  thick  skull 
Is  as  empty  of  brains  as  a  ladle; 

[i6o] 


A   Vers  dc  S octet e  Anthology 

While  F.  is  F  sharp,  and  will  cry  with  a  carp, 
That  he's  known  your  best  joke  from  his  cradle! 
When  your  humour  they  flout, 

You  can't  let  yourself  go; 
And  it  does  put  you  out 

When  a  person  says,  "Oh! 
I  have  known  that  old  joke  from  my  cradle!" 

If  your  master  is  surly,  from  getting  up  early 

(And  tempers  are  short  in  the  morning), 
An  inopportune  joke  is  enough  to  provoke 

Him  to  give  you,  at  once,  a  month's  warning. 
Then  if  you  refrain,  he  is  at  you  again. 

For  he  likes  to  get  value  for  money. 
He'll  ask  then  and  there,  with  an  insolent  stare, 
"If  you  know  that  you're  paid  to  be  funny?" 
It  adds  to  the  tasks 

Of  a  merryman's  place, 
When  your  principal  asks, 
Wish  a  scowl  on  his  face. 
If  you  know  that  you're  paid  to  be  funny  ? 

Comes  a  Bishop,  maybe,  or  a  solemn  D.D. — • 

Oh!  beware  of  his  anger  provoking 
Better  not  pull  his  hair — don't  stick  pins  in  his 
chair; 

He  won't  understand  practical  joking. 
If  the  jests  that  you  crack  have  an  orthodox  smack, 

You  may  get  a  bland  smile  from  these  sages; 
But  should  it,  by  chance,  be  imported  from  France, 

Half-a-crown  is  stopped  out  of  your  wages! 

[  i6i  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


It's  a  general  rule, 

Though  your  zeal  it  may  quench 
If  the  Family  Fool 

Makes  a  joke  that's  too  French, 
Half-a-crown  is  stopped  out  of  his  wages! 

Though  your  head  it  may  rack  with  a  bilious  attack, 

And  your  senses  with  toothache  you're  losing. 
Don't  be  mopy  and  flat — they  don't  fine  you  for 
that 
If  you're  properly  quaint  and  amusing! 
Though  your  wife  ran  away  with  a  soldier  that  day 

And  took  with  her  your  trifle  of  money; 
Bless  your  heart,  they  don't  mind — they're  exceed- 
ingly kind — 
They  don't  blame  you — as  long  as  you're  funny! 
It's  a  comfort  to  feel 

If  your  partner  should  flit, 
Though  you  suffer  a  deal, 
They  don't  mind  it  a  bit — • 
They  don't  blame  you — so  long  as  you're  funny! 

F.  S.  Gilbert. 


I 


AN  INTERLUDE 

N  the  greenest  growth  of  the  May-time, 
I  rode  where  the  woods  were  wet. 
Between  the  dawn  and  the  day-time; 
The  spring  was  glad  that  we  met. 
[  162  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societc  Anthology 

There  was  something  the  season  wanted, 

Though  the  ways  and  the  woods  smelt  sweet; 

The  breath  at  your  lips  that  panted, 
The  pulse  of  the  grass  at  your  feet. 


You  came,  and  the  sun  came  after. 
And  the  green  grew  golden  above; 

And  the  May-flowers  lightened  with  laughter, 
And  the  meadow-sweet  shook  with  love. 


Your  feet  in  the  full-grown  grasses 
Moved  soft  as  a  weak  wind  blows; 

You  passed  me  as  April  passes, 
With  face  made  out  of  a  rose. 


By  the  stream  where  the  stems  were  slender, 
Your  light  foot  paused  at  the  sedge; 

It  might  be  to  watch  the  tender 

Light  leaves  in  the  spring-time  hedge. 

On  boughs  that  the  sweet  month  blanches 

With  flowery  frost  of  May; 
It  might  be  a  bird  in  the  branches, 

It  might  be  a  thorn  in  the  way. 

I  waited  to  watch  you  linger, 

With  foot  drawn  back  from  the  dew, 

Till  a  sunbeam  straight  like  a  finger 
Struck  sharp  through  the  leaves  at  you. 

[163] 


A   Vers  de  Societc  A nthology 

And  a  bird  overhead  sang  "Follow," 
And  a  bird  to  the  right  sang  "Here"; 

And  the  arch  of  the  leaves  was  hollow, 
And  the  meaning  of  May  was  clear. 

I  saw  where  the  sun's  hand  pointed, 
I  knew  what  the  bird's  note  said; 

By  the  dawn  and  the  dew  fall  anointed. 
You  were  queen  by  the  gold  on  your  head. 


As  the  glimpse  of  a  burnt-out  ember 
Recalls  a  regret  of  the  sun, 

I  remember,  forget,  and  remember 
What  love  saw  done  and  undone. 


I  remember  the  way  we  parted. 
The  day  and  the  way  we  met; 

You  hoped  we  were  both  broken-hearted. 
And  knew  we  should  both  forget. 

And  May  with  her  world  in  flower 
Seemed  still  to  murmur  and  smile 

As  you  murmured  and  smiled  for  an  hour; 
I  saw  you  twice  at  the  stile. 

A  hand  like  a  white-wood  blossom 
You  lifted  and  waved,  and  passed. 

With  head  hung  down  to  the  bosom, 
And  pale,  as  it  seemed,  to  the  last. 

[164] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Ajttholo 


gy 


And  the  best  and  the  worst  of  this  is, 

That  neither  is  most  to  blame. 
If  you've  forgotten  my  kisses, 

And  I've  forgotten  your  name. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


A  MATCH 

IF  love  w^ere  w^hat  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  grey  grief; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 

And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle. 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

1  hat  get  sweet  rain  at  noon; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  Life,  my  darling, 

And  I,  your  love,  were  Death, 
We'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  wreath 
[165] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 
If  you  were  Life,  my  darling, 

And  I,  your  love,  were  Death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  Sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  Joy, 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons, 

And  tears  of  night  and  morrow. 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  Sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  Joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady. 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours, 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers. 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady. 

And  night  were  bright  like  day; 
If  you  were  April's  lady. 

And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 
We'd  hunt  down  Love  together. 
Pluck  out  his  flying  feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 

And  find  his  mouth  a  rein; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 

[i66] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


CAPRICE 


SHE  hung  the  cage  at  the  window: 
"If  he  goes  by,"  she  said, 
"He  will  hear  my  robin  singing, 
And  when  he  lifts  his  head, 
I  shall  be  sitting  here  to  sew. 
And  he  will  bow  to  me,  I  know." 

The  robin  sang  a  love-sweet  song. 
The  young  man  raised  his  head; 

The  maiden  turned  away  and  blushed: 
"I  am  a  fool!"  she  said, 

And  went  on  'broidering  in  silk 

A  pink-eyed  rabbit,  white  as  milk. 

II 

The  young  man  loitered  slowly 

By  the  house  three  times  that  day; 

She  took  her  bird  from  the  window: 
"He  need  not  look  this  way." 

She  sat  at  her  piano  long, 

And  sighed,  and  played  a  death-sad  song. 

But  when  the  day  was  done,  she  said, 

"I  wish  that  he  would  come! 
Remember,  Mary,  if  he  calls 

To-night — I'm  not  at  home." 
So  when  he  rang,  she  went — the  elf! — ■ 
She  went  and  let  him  in  herself. 

[167] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

III 

They  sang  full  long  together 

Their  songs  love-sweet,  death-sad; 

The  robin  woke  from  his  slumber, 
And  rang  out,  clear  and  glad. 

"Now  go!"  she  coldly  said;   "'tis  late"; 

And  followed  him — to  latch  the  gate. 

He  took  the  rosebud  from  her  hair, 
While,  "You  shall  not!"  she  said; 

He  closed  her  hand  within  his  own, 
And,  while  her  tongue  forbade, 

Her  will  was  darkened  in  the  eclipse 

Of  blinding  love  upon  his  lips. 

William  Dean  Howells. 


G 


THE  MINUET 

RANDMA  told  me  all  about  it. 
Told  me  so  I  couldn't  doubt  it, 
How  she  danced — my  Grandma  dancedl- 
Long  ago. 


How  she  held  her  pretty  head, 
How  her  dainty  skirt  she  spread, 
Turning  out  her  little  toes; 
How  she  slowly  leaned  and  rose — 
Long  ago. 

Grandma's  hair  was  bright  and  sunny; 
Dimpled  cheeks,  too — ah,  how  funny! 
Really  quite  a  pretty  girl, 
Long  ago. 

[i68] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 

Bless  her!  why  she  wears  a  cap, 
Grandma  does,  and  takes  a  nap 
Every  single  day;  and  yet 
Grandma  danced  the  minuet 
Long  ago. 

Now  she  sits  there  rocking,  rocking. 
Always  knitting  Grandpa's  stocking — 
(Every  girl  was  taught  to  knit 

Long  ago), 
Yet  her  figure  is  so  neat, 
And  her  ways  so  staid  and  sweet, 
I  can  almost  see  her  now 
Bending  to  her  partner's  bow. 

Long  ago. 

Grandma  says  our  modern  jumping. 
Hopping,  rushing,  whirling,  bumping. 
Would  have  shocked  the  gentle  folk 

Long  ago. 
No — they  moved  with  stately  grace, 
Everything  in  proper  place, 
Gliding  slowly  forward,  then 
Slowly  curtseying  back  again. 

Long  ago. 


Modern  ways  are  quite  alarming. 
Grandma  says;  but  boys  were  charming — • 
Girls  and  boys  I  mean,  of  course — 
Long  ago. 

[  169  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Bravely  modest,  grandly  shy, — 
She  would  like  to  have  us  try 
Just  to  feel  like  those  who  met 
In  the  graceful  minuet 

Long  ago. 

With  the  minuet  in  fashion, 
Who  could  fly  into  a  passion  ? 

All  would  wear  the  calm  they  wore 

Long  ago. 
In  time  to  come,  if  I,  perchance. 
Should  tell  my  grandchild  of  our  dance, 
I  should  really  like  to  say, 
"We  did  it,  dear,  in  some  such  way. 

Long  ago." 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


A  STREET  SKETCH 

UPON  the  Kerb,  a  maiden  neat — 
Her  hazel  eyes  are  passing  sweet — 

There  stands  and  waits  in  dire  distress: 
The  muddy  road  is  pitiless, 
And  'busses  thunder  down  the  street! 

A  snowy  skirt,  all  frills  and  pleat; 
Two  tiny,  well-shod,  dainty  feet 

Peep  out,  beneath  her  kilted  dress, 
Upon  the  Kerb. 

[  170] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


She'll  first  advance,  and  then  retreat, 
Half-frightened  by  a  hansom  fleet. 

She  looks  around,  I  must  confess. 
With  marvellous  coquettishness! — ■ 
Then  droops  her  eyes  and  looks  discreet, 
Upon  the  Kerb! 


y.  AsJihy-Stcrry. 


SAINT  MAY 


A   CITY   LYRIC 


ST.  ALOYS  THE  GREAT  is  both  mouldy  and 
grim, 
Not  know^ing  the  road  there,  you'll  long  have 
to  search 
To  find  your  w^ay  into  this  old  city  church; 
Yet  on  fine  Sunday  mornings  I  frequently  stray 
There  to  see  a  new^  saint,  whom  I've  christened  St. 
May. 

Of  saints  I've  seen  plenty  in  churches  before — 

In  Florence  or  Venice  they're  there  by  the  score; 

Agnese,  Maria — the  rest  I  forget — ■ 

By  Titian,  Bassano,  and  brave  Tintoret: 

They  none  can  compare,  though  they're  well  in 

their  way. 
In  maidenly  grace  with  my  dainty  St.  May. 

[171] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

She's  young  for  a  saint,  for  she's  scarcely  eighteen, 
And  ne'er  could  wear  peas  in  those  dainty  bottines; 
Her  locks  are  not  shaven,  and  'twould  be  a  sin 
To  wear  a  hair-shirt  next  that  delicate  skin; 
Save  diagonal  stripes  on  a  dress  of  light  gray, 
Stripes  ne'er  have  been  borne  by  bewitching  St. 
May. 

Then  she's  almost  too  plump  and  too  round  for  a 

saint. 
With  sweet  little  dimples  that  Millais  might  paint; 
She  has  no  mediaeval  nor  mortified  mien. 
No  wimple  of  yellow,  nor  background  of  green, 
A  nimbus  of  hair  throws  its  sunshiny  ray 
Of  glory  around  the  fair  face  of  St.  May. 

What  surquayne  or  partlet  could  look  better  than 
My  saint's  curly  jacket  of  black  Astracan  \ 
What  coif  than  her  bonnet — a  triumph  of  skill — 
Or  alb  than  her  petticoat  edged  with  a  frill  ? 
So  sober,  yet  smiling — so  grave,  yet  so  gay, 
Oh,  where  is  a  saint  like  my  charming  St.  May  ? 

y.  Ashby-Sterry. 


[172] 


A   Fers  de  Societe  A nthology 


PET'S  PUNISHMENT 

OH,  if  my  love  offended  me, 
And  we  had  words  together. 
To  show  her  I  would  master  be, 
I'd  whip  her  with  a  feather! 

If  then  she,  like  a  naughty  girl. 

Would  tyranny  declare  it, 
I'd  give  my  pet  a  cross  of  pearl, 

And  make  her  always  bear  it. 

If  still  she  tried  to  sulk  and  sigh. 

And  threw  away  my  posies, 
I'd  catch  my  darling  on  the  sly. 

And  smother  her  with  roses! 

But  should  she  clench  her  dimpled  fists, 

Or  contradict  her  betters, 
Td  manacle  her  tiny  wrists 

With  dainty  golden  fetters. 

And  if  she  dared  her  lips  to  pout- 
Like  many  pert  young  misses — 

I'd  wind  my  arm  her  waist  about, 
And  punish  her — ^with  kisses! 

y.  Ashby-Sterry. 


[173] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


HER  LETTER 

I'M  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 
Dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance, 
In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire — • 
It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France; 
I'm  be-diamonded  out  of  all  reason. 

My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  queue: 
In  short,  sir,  "the  belle  of  the  season" 
Is  wasting  an  hour  on  you. 

A  dozen  engagements  I've  broken; 

I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set; 
Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken. 

That  waits — on  the  stairs — for  me  yet. 
They  say  he'll  be  rich — ^when  he  grows  up — 

And  then  he  adores  me  indeed. 
And  you,  sir,  are  turning  your  nose  up. 

Three  thousand  miles  off,  as  you  read. 

"And  how  do  I  like  my  position  ?" 

"And  what  do  I  think  of  New  York  ?" 
"And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition. 

With  whom  do  I  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk?" 
"And  isn't  it  nice  to  have  riches, 

And  diamonds  and  silks,  and  all  that?" 
"And  isn't  it  a  change  to  the  ditches 

And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat  ?" 

[174] 


A   Vers  (I e  Soctete  A  ntholo gy 

Well,  yes — If  you  saw  us  out  driving 

Each  day  in  the  Park,  four-in-hand — ■ 
If  you  saw  poor  dear  mama  contriving 

To  look  supernaturally  grand — 
If  you  saw  papa's  picture,  as  taken 

By  Brady,  and  tinted  at  that — • 
You'd  never  suspect  he  sold  bacon 

And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

And  yet,  just  this  moment  when  sitting 

In  the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier — • 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 

The  "finest  soiree  of  the  year" — 
In  the  mists  of  a  gaze  de  Chamhery, 

And  the  hum  of  the  smallest  of  talk- 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  the  "Ferry," 

And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  "The  Fork"; 

Of  Harrison's  barn,  with  its  muster 

Of  flags  festooned  over  the  wall; 
Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft  lustre 

And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl; 
Of  the  steps  that  we  took  to  one  fiddle; 

Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-a-vis. 
And  how  I  once  went  down  the  middle 

With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy  McGee; 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleeping 
On  the  hill,  when  the  time  came  to  go; 

Of  the  few  baby  peaks  that  were  peeping 
From  under  their  bedclothes  of  snow; 

[175] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Of  that  ride — that  to  me  was  the  rarest; 

Of — the  something  you  said  at  the  gate. 
Ah,  Joe,  then  I  wasn't  an  heiress 

To  "the  best-paying  lead  in  the  State!" 

Well,  well,  it's  all  past;  yet  it's  funny 

To  think,  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 
Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 

That  I  should  be  thinking,  right  there, 
Of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water. 

And  swam  the  North  Fork,  and  all  that, 
Just  to  dance  with  old  Folinsbee's  daughter, 

The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 

But  goodness!  what  nonsense  I'm  writing! 

(Mama  says  my  taste  still  is  low), 
Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 

I'm  spooning  on  Joseph — heigh-ho! 
And  I'm  to  be  "finished"  by  travel — 

Whatever's  the  meaning  of  that — 
Oh!  why  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 

In  drifting  on  Poverty  Flat  ? 

Good-night — here's  the  end  of  my  paper; 

Good-night — if  the  longitude  please — 
For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 

Your  sun's  climbing  over  the  trees. 
But  know,  if  you  haven't  got  riches. 

And  are  poor,  dearest  Joe,  and  all  that. 
That  my  heart's  somewhere  there  in  the  ditches, 

And  you've  struck  it — on  Poverty  Flat. 

Francis  Bret  Hartf. 

[176] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


AVICE 

THOUGH  the  voice  of  modern  schools 
Has  demurred, 
By  the  dreamy  Asian  creed 
'Tis  averred, 
That  the  souls  of  men,  released 
From  their  bodies  v^hen  deceased, 
Sometimes  enter  in  a  beast, — 
Or  a  bird. 

I  have  watched  you  long,  Avice, — 

Watched  you  so, 
I  have  found  your  secret  out; 

And  I  know 
That  the  restless  ribboned  things, 
Where  your  slope  of  shoulder  springs. 
Are  but  undeveloped  wings. 

That  will  grow. 

When  you  enter  in  a  room. 

It  is  stirred 
With  the  wayward,  flashing  flight 

Of  a  bird; 
And  you  speak — and  bring  with  your 
Leaf  and  sun-ray,  bud  and  blue. 
And  the  wind-breath  and  the  dew, 

At  a  word. 

[177] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Anthology 

When  you  called  to  me  my  name, 

Then  again 
When  I  heard  your  single  cry 

In  the  lane, 
All  the  sound  was  as  the  "sweet" 
Which  the  birds  to  birds  repeat 
In  their  thank-song  to  the  heat 

After  rain. 

When  you  sang  the  Schwalbenlied, — 

'Twas  absurd, — 
But  it  seemed  no  human  note 

That  I  heard; 
For  your  strain  had  all  the  trills, 
All  the  little  shakes  and  stills. 
Of  the  over-song  that  rills 

From  a  bird. 

You  have  just  their  eager,  quick 

Airs  de  tete. 
All  their  flush  and  fever-heat 

When  elate; 
Every  bird-like  nod  and  beck. 
And  a  bird's  own  curve  of  neck 
When  she  gives  a  little  peck 

To  her  mate. 

When  you  left  me,  only  now. 

In  that  furred, 
Puffed,  and  feathered  Polish  dress, 

I  was  spurred 
[178] 


A   Vers  de  Socicte  Antholo 


gy 


Just  to  catch  you,  O  my  sweet, 
By  the  bodice  trim  and  neat,— 
Just  to  feel  your  heart-a-beat, 
Like  a  bird. 

Yet  alas!  Love's  light  you  deign 

But  to  wear 
As  the  dew  upon  your  plumes. 

And  you  care 
Not  a  whit  for  rest  or  hush; 
But  the  leaves,  the  lyric  gush, 
And  the  wing-power,  and  the  rush 

Of  the  air. 

So  I  dare  not  woo  you,  sweet. 

For  a  day. 
Lest  I  lose  you  in  a  flash. 

As  I  may; 
Did  I  tell  you  tender  things, 
You  would  shake  your  sudden  wings; — 
You  would  start  from  him  who  sings, 

And  away. 

Austin  Dobson. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  FOUR  SEASONS 

WHEN  Spring  comes  laughing 
By  vale  and  hill, 
By  wind-flower  walking 
And  daff'odil,— 

[  179] 


A   Vers  de  Societc  A nthology 

Sing  stars  of  morning, 

Sing  morning  skies, 
Sing  blue  of  Speedwell, — • 

And  my  Love's  eyes. 

When  comes  the  Summer, 

Full-leaved  and  strong, 
And  gay  birds  gossip 

The  orchard  long, — 
Sing  hid,  sweet  honey 

That  no  bee  sips; 
Sing  red,  red  roses, — • 

And  my  love's  lips. 

When  Autumn  scatters 

The  leaves  again, 
And  piled  sheaves  bury 

The  broad-wheeled  wain, — 
Sing  flutes  of  harvest 

Where  men  rejoice; 
Sing  rounds  of  reapers, — 

And  my  Love's  voice. 

But  when  comes  winter 

With  hail  and  storm. 
And  red  fire  roaring 

And  ingle  warm, — 
Sing  first  sad  going 

Of  friends  that  part; 
Then  sing  glad  meeting, — 

And  my  Love's  heart. 

Austin  Dohson. 
[i8o] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

IN  TOWN 

"The  blue  -fly  sung  in  the  pane." — ^Tennyson. 


T 


OILING  in  Town  now  is  "horrid" 
(There  is  that  woman  again!) — 
June  in  the  zenith  is  torrid, 
Thought  gets  dry  in  the  brain. 


There  is  that  woman  again: 

"Strawberries!  fourpence  a  pottle! 

Thought  gets  dry  in  the  brain; 
Ink  gets  dry  in  the  bottle. 

"Strawberries!  fourpence  a  pottle!" 
Oh  for  the  green  of  a  lane! — 

Ink  gets  dry  in  the  bottle; 

"Buzz"  goes  a  fly  in  the  pane! 

Oh  for  the  green  of  a  lane, 

Where  one  might  lie  and  be  lazy! 

"Buzz"  goes  a  fly  in  the  pane; 
Bluebottles  drive  me  crazy! 

Where  one  might  lie  and  be  lazy, 
Careless  of  Town  and  all  in  it! — • 

Bluebottles  drive  me  crazy: 
I  shall  go  mad  in  a  minute! 
[i8i] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Careless  of  Town  and  all  in  it, 

With  some  one  to  soothe  and  to  still  you, 
I  shall  go  mad  in  a  minute. 

Bluebottle,  then  I  shall  kill  you! 

With  some  one  to  soothe  and  to  still  you, 
As  only  one's  feminine  kin  do, — 

Bluebottle,  then  I  shall  kill  you: 

There  now!  I've  broken  the  window! 

As  only  one's  feminine  kin  do, — 
Some  musHn-clad  Mabel  or  May! — 

There  now!  I've  broken  the  window! 
Bluebottle's  off  and  away! 

Some  muslin-clad  Mabel  or  May, 

To  dash  one  with  eau  de  Cologne; — ■ 

Bluebottle's  off  and  away. 

And  why  should  I  stay  here  alone  ? 

To  dash  one  with  eau  de  Cologne, 
All  over  one's  eminent  forehead; 

And  why  should  I  stay  here  alone  ? 
Toiling  in  Town  now  is  "horrid." 

Austin  Dohson. 


[182] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


WHEN  I  SAW  YOU  LAST,  ROSE 


w 


HEN  I  saw  you  last,  Rose, 
You  were  only  so  high;- 
How  fast  the  time  goes! 


Like  a  bud  ere  it  blows. 

You  just  peeped  at  the  sky, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose! 

Now  your  petals  unclose, 

Now  your  May-time  is  nigh; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes! 

And  a  life — how  it  grows! 

You  were  scarcely  so  shy. 
When  I  saw  you  last.  Rose! 

In  your  bosom  it  shows 

There's  a  guest  on  the  sly; 
How  fast  the  time  goes! 

Is  it  Cupid  ?     Who  knows! 
Yet  you  used  not  to  sigh. 
When  I  saw  you  last.  Rose; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes! 

Justin  Dobson. 

[183] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

TO  "LYDIA  LANGUISH" 

'//  me  faut  des  emotions." — Blanche  Amory 

YOU  ask  me,  Lydia,  "whether  I, 
If  you  refuse  my  suit,  shall  die," 
(Now  pray  don't  let  this  hurt  you!) 
Although  the  time  be  out  of  joint, 
I  should  not  think  a  bodkin's  point 

The  sole  resource  of  virtue; 
Nor  shall  I,  though  your  mood  endure, 
Attempt  a  final  Water-cure 

Except  against  my  wishes; 
For  I  respectfully  decline 
To  dignify  the  Serpentine, 

And  make  hors-d'ceuvres  for  fishes; 
But  if  you  ask  me  whether  I 

Composedly  can  go. 
Without  a  look,  without  a  sigh. 

Why,  then  I  answer — No. 

"You  are  assured,"  you  sadly  say 
(If  in  this  most  considerate  way 

To  treat  my  suit  your  will  is). 
That  I  shall  "quickly  find  as  fair 
Some  new  Neaera's  tangled  hair — 

Some  easier  Amaryllis." 
I  cannot  promise  to  be  cold 
If  smiles  are  kind  as  yours  of  old 

On  lips  of  later  beauties; 

[184] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Nor  can  I,  if  I  would,  forget 

The  homage  that  is  Nature's  debt, 

While  man  has  social  duties; 
But  if  you  ask  shall  I  prefer 

To  you  I  honour  so, 
A  somewhat  visionary  Her, 

I  answer  truly — No. 

You  fear,  you  frankly  add,  "to  find 
In  me  too  late  the  altered  mind 

That  altering  Time  estranges." 
To  this  I  make  response  that  we 
(As  physiologists  agree) 

Must  have  septennial  changes; 
This  is  a  thing  beyond  control, 
And  it  were  best  upon  the  whole 

To  try  and  find  out  whether 
We  could  not,  by  some  means,  arrange 
This  not-to-be-avoided  change 

So  as  to  change  together: 
But,  had  you  asked  me  to  allow 

That  you  could  ever  grow 
Less  amiable  than  you  are  now, — 

Emphatically — No. 

But — to  be  serious — if  you  care 
To  know  how  I  shall  really  bear 

This  much-discussed  rejection, 
I  answer  you.     As  feeling  men 
Behave,  in  best  romances,  when 

You  outrage  their  aff^ection; — 
With  that  gesticulatory  woe, 
[185] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

By  which,  as  melodramas  show, 

Despair  is  indicated; 
Enforced  by  all  the  liquid  grief 
Which  hugest  pocket-handkerchief 

Has  ever  simulated; 
And  when,  arrived  so  far,  you  say 

In  tragic  accents  "Go," 
Then,  Lydia,  then  ...  I  still  shall  stay. 

And  firmly  answer — No. 

Austin  Dobson. 


THE  OLD  SEDAN  CHAIR 

IT  stands  in  the  stable-yard,  under  the  eaves. 
Propped  up  by  a  broom-stick  and  covered  with 
leaves: 
It  once  was  the  pride  of  the  gay  and  the  fair, 
But  now  'tis  a  ruin, — that  old  Sedan  chair! 

It  is  battered  and  tattered, ^ — -it  little  avails 

That  once  it  was  lacquered,   and  glistened  with 

nails; 
For  its  leather  is  cracked  into  lozenge  and  square, 
Like  a  canvas  by  Wilkie, — that  old  Sedan  chair! 

See, — here  came  the  bearing-straps;   here  were  the 

holes 
For  the  poles  of  the  bearers — when  once  there  were 

poles; 

[i86] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

It  was  cushioned  with  silk,  it  was  wadded  with 

hair, 
As  the  birds  have  discovered, — that  old  Sedan  chair! 

"Where's  Troy?"  says  the  poet!     Look, — under 

the  seat, 
Is  a  nest  with  four  eggs, — 'tis  the  favored  retreat 
Of  the  Muscovy  hen,  who  has  hatched,   I   dare 

swear. 
Quite  an  army  of  chicks  in  that  old  Sedan  chair! 

And  yet — can't  you  fancy  a  face  in  the  frame 

Of   the    window, — some    high-headed    damsel    or 

dame, 
Be-patched  and  be-powdered,  just  set  by  the  stair, 
While  they  raise  up  the  lid  of  that  old  Sedan  chair  ? 

Can't  you  fancy  Sir  Plume,  as  beside  her  he  stands, 
With  his  ruffles  a-droop  on  his  delicate  hands. 
With  his  cinnamon  coat,  with  his  laced  solitaire. 
As  he  lifts  her  out  light  from  that  old  Sedan  chair  ? 


•to* 


Then  it  swings  away  slowly.     Ah,  many  a  league 
It  has   trotted   'twixt   sturdy-legged   Terence   and 

Teague; 
Stout  fellows! — but  prone,  on  a  question  of  fare. 

To  brandish  the  poles  of  that  old  Sedan  chair! 

» 

It  has  waited  by  portals  where  Garrick  has  played; 
It  has  waited   by  Heidegger's  "Grand  Masquer- 
ade"; 

[187] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

For  my  Lady  Codille,  for  my  Lady  Bellair, 

It  has  waited — and  waited,  that  old  Sedan  chair! 

Oh,  the  scandals  it  knows!     Oh,  the  tales  It  could 

tell 
Of  Drum  and  Ridotto,  of  Rake  and  of  Belle, — ■ 
Of  Cock-fight  and  Levee,  and  (scarcely  more  rare!) 
Of  Fete-days  at  Tyburn,  that  old  Sedan  chair! 

"Heu!  quantum  mutata"  I  say  as  I  go. 

It  deserves  better  fate  than  a  stable-yard,  though! 

We  must  furbish  it  up,  and  dispatch  it — "With 

care,  — 
To  a  Fine-Art  Museum — that  old  Sedan  chair! 

Austin  Dobson. 


"LE  ROMAN  DE  LA  ROSE" 

POOR  Rose!  I  lift  you  from  the  street, — 
Far  better  I  should  own  you 
Than  you  should  lie  for  random  feet 
Where  careless  hands  have  thrown  you. 

Poor  pinky  petals,  crushed  and  torn! 

Did  heartless  Mayfair  use  you. 
Then  cast  you  forth  to  lie  forlorn. 

For  chariot-wheels  to  bruise  you  ? 
[i8S] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

I  saw  you  last  in  Edith's  hair, 
Rose,  you  would  scarce  discover 

That  I  she  passed  upon  the  stair 
Was  Edith's  favoured  lover. 

A  month — "a  little  month" — ago — 

O  theme  for  moral  writer! — 
'Twixt  you  and  me,  my  Rose,  you  know, 

She  might  have  been  politer; 

But  let  that  pass.     She  gave  you  then — 

Behind  the  oleander — 
To  one,  perhaps,  of  all  the  men — 

Who  best  could  understand  her, — 

Cyril,  that,  duly  flattered,  took. 

As  only  Cyril's  able. 
With  just  the  same  Arcadian  look 

He  used,  last  night,  for  Mabel; 

Then,  having  waltzed  till  every  star 

Had  paled  away  in  morning, 
Lit  up  his  cynical  cigar. 

And  tossed  you  downward,  scorning. 

Kismet,  my  Rose!     Revenge  is  sweet, — 
She  made  my  heart  strings  quiver; 

And  yet — ^You  sha'n't  lie  in  the  street; 
I'll  drop  you  in  the  river. 

Austin  Dobson. 

[189] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


NINETY-NINE  IN  THE  SHADE 

OFOR  a  lodge  in  a  garden  of  cucumbers! 
O  for  an  iceberg  or  two  at  control! 
O  for  a  vale  which  at  mid-day  the  dew 
cumbers! 
O  for  a  pleasure-trip  up  to  the  pole! 

O  for  a  little  one-story  thermometer, 

With  nothing  but  zeroes  all  ranged  in  a  row! 

O  for  a  big  double-barreled  hygrometer, 

To  measure  this   moisture  that  rolls   from  my 
brow! 

O  that  this  cold  world  were  twenty  times  colder! 

(That's  Irony  red-hot,  it  seemeth  to  me); 
O  for  a  turn  of  its  dreaded  cold  shoulder! 

O  what  a  comfort  an  ague  would  be! 

O  for  a  grotto  frost-lined  and  rill-riven, 
Scooped  in  the  rock  under  cataract  vast! 

O  for  a  winter  of  discontent  even! 
O  for  wet  blankets  judiciously  cast! 

O  for  a  soda-fount  spouting  up  boldly 

From  every  hot  lamp-post  against  the  hot  sky! 

O  for  proud  maiden  to  look  on  me  coldly, 
Freezing  my  soul  with  a  glance  of  her  eye! 

[  190  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A  ntJiology 

Then  O  for  a  draught  from  a  cup  of  cold  pizen, 

And  O  for  a  resting-place  in  the  cold  grave! 
With  a  bath  in  the  Styx  where  the  thick  shadow 
lies  on 
And  deepens  the  chill  of  its  dark-running  wave. 

Rossiter  Johnson. 

BRIGHTON  PIER 

WHICH  is  the  merriest  place  to  love, 
Whether  it  be  for  a  day  or  year; 
Where  can  we  slip,  like  a  cast-ofF  glove, 
The  care  that  hovers  our  world  above  ? 
Come  and  be  taught  upon  Brighton  Pier! 

Wandering  waves  on  the  shingle  dash, 

The  sky's  too  blue  for  a  thoughtless  tear; 
Danger  is  nothing  but  pessimist  trash, 
And  the  morning's  made  for  a  healthy  splash: 
Come  for  a  header  from  Brighton  Pier! 

Filled  with  life,  see  the  children  race, 
Motherly  hearts  they  quake  with  fear. 

Meeting  the  breezes  face  to  face! 

Whether  we're  steady  or  "go  the  pace," 
Let  us  be  young  upon  Brighton  Pier! 

Here  she  comes  with  her  love-lit  eyes. 
Hearts  will  throb  when  a  darling's  near; 

Would  it  be  well  to  avoid  her — ^wise  ? 

Every  fool  in  the  wide  world  tries. 

But  love  must  win  upon  Brighton  Pier! 

[191] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Lazily  lost  in  a  dream  we  sit — 

Maidens'  eyes  are  a  waveless  mere — 
There's  many  a  vow  when  seagulls  flit, 
And  many  a  sigh  when  lamps  are  lit, 

And  many  a  kiss  upon  Brighton  Pier. 
Dear  old  friends  of  the  days  long  fled, 

Why  did  you  vanish  and  leave  me  here  ? 
Girls  are  marrying,  boys  are  wed, 
Youth  is  living,  but  I  seem  dead. 

Kicking  my  heels  upon  Brighton  Pier! 

Clement  Scott. 


A  CONTRADICTION 

"  Far  turn  et  mutahile  semper  Fcemina!" — ^Virgil 

THEY  say  she's  like  an  April  day. 
All  sun  and  shower,  grave  and  gay. 
Just  half  in  love,  and  half  in  play, 
Like  other  misses. 
Go  to!     They  tell  a  pack  of  lies; 
For  I  have  heard  her  heart-drawn  sighs, 
And  I  have  seen  her  inmost  eyes, 
And  felt  her  kisses! 

They  think  her  laugh  is  over-bold, 
And  hint  her  smiles  are  bought  for  gold; 
Dull  heretics  have  thought  her  cold. 
As  is  the  fashion. 

[  192  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Antholo 


gy 


Ah  me!  when  we  together  stole 
Across  the  weald  to  leafy  Knole, 
'Twas  there  she  showed  to  me  her  soul 
And  all  her  passion! 

They  vow  her  life  is  tossed  about 
From  ball  to  picnic,  play  to  rout; 
A  careless  butterfly,  no  doubt. 

That  scandal  crushes. 
What  could  we  answer,  if  'twere  said 
That  Time  and  Fate  two  lovers  led 
To  lily-streams  at  Maidenhead, 

Among  the  rushes  ? 

Her  reputation  shivered  most 

Last  night  at  supper,  when  our  host 

Made  her  of  careless  lips  the  toast 

And  reigning  goddess. 
But  I,  who  know  my  love,  dare  say 
She  thought  of  home,  and  tried  to  pray 
Before  her  handmaid  slipped  away 

Her  satin  bodice. 

Your  silly  worldings  all  forget 
Her  depth  of  hidden  life,  and  bet 
They've  never  met  her  equal  yet 

In  fact  or  fiction. 
But  I,  who  love  in  secret,  sit 
Unweaving  webs  that  Fate  has  knit 
To  bind  me  to  so  exquisite 

A  contradiction. 

Clement  Scott. 

[  193  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


RONDEL 

KISS  me,  sweetheart;    the  Spring  is  here 
And  Love  is  Lord  of  you  and  me. 
The  blue-bells  beckon  each  passing  bee; 
The  wild  wood  laughs  to  the  flowered  year: 
There  is  no  bird  in  brake  or  brere, 

But  to  his  little  mate  sings  he, 
"Kiss  me,  sweetheart;    the  Spring  is  here, 
And  Love  is  Lord  of  you  and  me!" 

The  blue  sky  laughs  out  sweet  and  clear, 
The  missel-thrush  upon  the  tree 
Pipes  for  sheer  gladness  loud  and  free; 

And  I  go  singing  to  my  dear, 

"Kiss  me,  sweetheart;    the  Spring  is  here, 
And  Love  is  Lord  of  you  and  me." 

John  Payne. 


WHITE,  PILLARED  NECK 


WHITE,  pillared  neck;  a  brow  to  make  men 
quake; 
A  woman's  perfect  form; 
Like  some  cool  marble,  should  that  wake, 
Breathe,  and  be  warm. 

[  194] 


A   Vers  de  Socirte  A nthology 


II 


A  shape,  a  mind,  a  heart 

Of  womanhood  the  whole; 
Her  breath,  her  smile,  her  touch,  her  art. 

All — save  her  soul. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


JANET 


I  REMEMBER 
That  November 
When  the  new  November  child 
On  this  old  world  woke  and  smiled. 


II 


Here's  a  woman, 

Sweet  and  human, 

And  they  call  her  Janet,  now,- 

I  can't  make  it  out,  I  vow 


III 


It  only  seems 

One  night  of  dreams; 

Years  they  say;  how  do  they  plan  it  ? 

What's  become  of  Little  Janet  ? 

[195] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


IV 


Never  mind; 

She's  good;  she's  kind; 

Age  can  never  bend  or  win  her; 

There's  a  heart  of  youth  within  her. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


FOR  A  FAN 

EACH  of  us  answers  to  a  call; 
Master  or  mistress  have  we  all. 
I  belong  to  lovely  Anne; 
Dost  thou  wish  thou  wert  a  fan  ? 
Thus  to  be  treasured,  thus  to  be  prest, 
Pleasuring  thus,  and  thus  caressed  ? 

Richard  fVatson  Gilder. 


BALLADE  OF  SUMMER 

WHEN  strawberry  pottles  are  common  and 
cheap. 
Ere  elms  be  black,  or  limes  be  sere, 
When  midnight  dances  are  murdering  sleep, 
Then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year 
And  far  from  Fleet  Street,  far  from  here, 
The  Summer  is  Queen  in  the  length  of  the  land. 
And  moonlit  nights  they  are  soft  and  clear. 
When  fans  for  a  penny  are  sold  in  the  Strand! 
•         [.  196  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


When  clamour  that  doves  in  the  Hndens  keep 
Mingles  with  musical  plash  of  the  weir, 
Where  drowned  green  tresses  of  crowsfeet  creep, 
Then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year! 
And  better  a  crust  and  a  beaker  of  beer, 
With  rose  hung  hedges  on  either  hand, 
Than  a  palace  in  town  and  a  prince's  cheer. 
When  fans  for  a  penny  are  sold  in  the  Strand! 

When  big  trout  late  in  the  twilight  leap. 
When  cuckoo  clamoureth  far  and  near. 
When  glittering  scythes  in  the  hayfield  reap. 
Then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year! 
And  it's  oh  to  sail,  with  the  wind  to  steer, 
While  kine  knee-deep  in  the  water  stand, 
On  a  highland  loch,  on  a  Lowland  mere. 
When  fans  for  a  penny  are  sold  in  the  Strand! 

ENVOY 

Friend,  with  the  fops  while  we  dawdle  here. 
Then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year! 
And  the  summer  runs  out,  like  grains  of  sand. 
When  fans  for  a  penny  are  sold  in  the  Strand! 

Andreiu  Lang. 


[  197  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


COLINETTE 

FRANCE  your  country,  as  we  know; 
Room  enough  for  guessing  yet, 
What  lips  now  or  long  ago, 
Kissed  and  named  you — Colinette. 
In  what  fields  from  sea  to  sea, 

By  what  stream  your  home  was  set, 
Loire  or  Seine  was  glad  of  thee, 
Marne  or  Rhone,  O  Colinette  ? 

Did  you  stand  with  "maidens  ten. 

Fairer  maids  were  never  seen," 
When  the  young  king  and  his  men 

Passed  among  the  orchards  green  ? 
Nay,  old  ballads  have  a  note 

Mournful  we  would  fain  forget; 
No  such  sad  old  air  should  float 

Round  your  young  brows,  Colinette. 

Say,  did  Ronsard  sing  to  you. 

Shepherdess  to  lull  his  pain. 
When  the  court  went  wandering  through 

Rose  pleasances  of  Touraine  ? 
Ronsard  and  his  famous  Rose 

Long  are  dust  the  breezes  fret; 
You,  within  the  garden  close. 

You  are  blooming,  Colinette. 
[198] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Have  I  seen  you  proud  and  gay, 

With  a  patched  and  perfumed  beau, 
Dancing  through  the  summer  day, 

Misty  summer  of  Watteau  ? 
Nay,  so  sweet  a  maid  as  you 

Never  walked  a  minuet 
With  the  splendid  courtly  crew; 

Nay,  forgive  me,  Colinette. 

Not  from  Greuze's  canvases 

Do  you  cast  a  glance,  a  smile; 
You  are  not  as  one  of  these, 

Yours  is  beauty  without  guile. 
Round  your  maiden  brows  and  hair 

Maidenhood  and  Childhood  met. 
Crown  and  kiss  you,  sweet  and  fair, 

New  art's  blossom,  Colinette. 

Andrew  Lang. 


BALLADE  OF  DEAD  LADIES 

{After  Villon) 

NAY,  tell  me  now  in  what  strange  air 
The  Roman  Flora  dwells  to-day; 
Where  Archippiada  hides,  and  where 
Beautiful  Thais  has  passed  away  ? 
Whence  answers  Echo,  afield,  astray. 
By  mere  or  stream, — around,  below  ? 
Lovelier  she  than  a  woman  of  clay; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ? 

[  199  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Where  is  wise  Heloise,  that  care 
Brought  on  Abeilard,  and  dismay  ? 
All  for  her  love  he  found  a  snare, 
A  maimed  poor  monk  in  orders  grey; 
And  where's  the  Queen  who  willed  to  slay 
Buridan,  that  in  a  sack  must  go 
Afloat  down  Seine, — a  perilous  way — 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ? 

Where's  that  White  Queen,  a  lily  rare. 
With  her  sweet  song,  the  Siren's  lay  ? 
Where's  Bertha  Broad-foot,  Beatrice  fair? 
Alys  and  Ermengarde,  where  are  they  ? 
Good  Joan,  whom  English  did  betray 
In  Rouen  town,  and  burned  her  ?     No, 
Maiden  and  Queen,  no  man  may  say; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ? 

ENVOY 

Prince,  all  this  week  thou  need'st  not  pray. 
Nor  yet  this  year  the  thing  to  know. 
One  burden  answers,  ever  and  aye, 
"Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ?" 

Andrew  Lang. 

IL  BACIO 

KISS!  Hollyhock  in  Love's  luxuriant  closel 
Brisk  music  played  on  pearly  little  key^ 
In  tempo  with  the  witching  melodies 
Love  in  the  ardent  heart  repeating  goes. 

[  200  ] 


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Sonorous,  graceful  Kiss,  hail!  Kiss  divine! 

Unequalled  boon,  unutterable  bliss! 

Man,  bent  o'er  thine  enthralling  chalice,  Kiss, 
Grows  drunken  with  a  rapture  only  thine! 

Thou  comfortest  as  music  does,  and  wine. 
And  grief  dies  smothered  in  thy  purple  fold. 
Let  one  greater  than  I,  Kiss,  and  more  bold, 

Rear  thee  a  classic,  monumental  line. 

Humble  Parisian  bard,  this  infantile 

Bouquet  of  rhymes  I  tender  half  in  fear  .... 
Be  gracious,  and  in  guerdon,  on  the  dear 

Red  lips  of  One  I  know,  a  light  and  smile! 

Paul  Verlaine. 


SUR  L'HERBE 

THE  abbe  rambles."— "You,  marquis, 
Have  put  your  wig  on  all  awry."^ — • 
"This  wine  of  Cypress  kindles  me 
Less,  my  Camargo,  than  your  eye!" 

"My  passion" — "Do,  mi,  sol,  la,  si." — 
"Abbe,  your  villainy  lies  bare." — 

"Mcsdames,  I  climb  up  yonder  tree 
And  fetch  a  star  down,  I  declare." 

"Let  each  kiss  his  own  lady,  then 

The  others." — "Would  that  I  were,  too, 
A  lap-dog!" — "Softly,  gentlemen!" — 

"Do,  mi."— "The  moon! — Hey,  how  d'ye  do  ?" 

Paul  Ferlaine. 

[  20I  ] 


A   Vers  de  Soctete  A nthology 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  GLOVE 

HERE  on  my  desk  it  lies, 
Here  as  the  daylight  dies, 
One  small  glove  just  her  size- 
Six  and  a  quarter; 
Pearly  gray,  a  colour  neat. 
Deux  boiitons  all  complete, 
Faint  scented,  soft  and  sweet; 
Could  glove  be  smarter  ? 

Can  I  the  day  forget. 
Years  ago,  when  the  pet 
Gave  it  me  ? — where  we  met 

Still  I  remember; 
Then  'twas  the  summer  time; 
Now  as  I  write  this  rhyme 
Children  love  pantomime — 

'Tis  December. 


Fancy  my  boyish  bliss 
Then  when  she  gave  me  this, 
And  how  the  frequent  kiss 

Crumpled  its  fingers; 
Then  she  was  fair  and  kind, 
Now,  when  I've  changed  my  mind, 
Still  some  scent  undefined 

On  the  glove  lingers. 

[  202  ] 


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Though  she's  a  matron  sage, 
Yet  I  have  kept  the  gage; 
While,  as  I  pen  this  page. 

Still  comes  a  goddess, 
Her  eldest  daughter,  fair. 
With  the  same  eyes  and  hair; 
Happy  the  arm  I  swear. 

That  clasps  her  bodice. 

Heaven  grant  her  fate  be  bright, 
And  her  step  ever  light 
As  it  will  be  to-night, 

First  in  the  dances. 
Why  did  her  mother  prove 
False  when  I  dared  to  love  ? 
Zounds!  I  shall  burn  the  glove! 

This  my  romance  is. 

H.  Savile  Clarke 


IF 


OH,  if  the  world  were  mine,  Love, 
I'd  give  the  world  for  thee! 
Alas!  there  is  no  sign,  Love, 
Of  that  contingency. 

Were  I  a  king — which  isn't 

To  be  considered  now, — 
A  diadem  had  glistened 

Upon  thy  lovely  brow. 
[  203  ] 


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Had  fame  with  laurels  crowned  me, — 

She  hasn't  up  to  date, — 
Nor  time  nor  change  had  found  me 

To  love  and  thee  ingrate. 

If  death  threw  down  his  gage,  Love, 

Though  Life  is  dear  to  me, 
I'd  die,  e'en  of  old  age,  Love, 

To  win  a  smile  from  thee. 

But  being  poor  we  part,  Dear, 
And  love,  sweet  love,  must  die, — 

Thou  wilt  not  break  thy  heart.  Dear; 
No  more,  I  think,  shall  I. 

James  Jeffrey  Roche. 


DON'T 

YOUR  eyes  were  made  for  laughter, 
Sorrow  befits  them  not; 
Would  you  be  blithe  hereafter, 
Avoid  the  lover's  lot. 

The  rose  and  lily  blended 
Possess  your  cheeks  so  fair; 

Care  never  was  intended 
To  leave  his  furrows  there. 

Your  heart  was  not  created 

To  fret  itself  away. 
Being  unduly  mated 

To  common  human  clay. 

[  204  ] 


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But  hearts  were  made  for  loving, — ■ 

Confound  philosophy! 
Forget  what  I've  been  proving, 

Sweet  Phyllis,  and  love  me. 

Jatiies  Jeffrey  Roche, 


I 


ON  REREADING  TELEMAOUE 

"Calypso  could  not  console  herself* 

PLACE  thee  back  upon  the  shelf, 

O  Fenelon,  how  scant  thy  knowledge, 
Who  seemed  as  Solomon  himself 
To  me,  a  callow  youth  at  college! 


No  need  to  say  thou  wert  a  priest; 

No  need  to  own  that  I  am  human; 
Mine  this  advantage  is — at  least 

I've  learned  the  alphabet  of  Woman. 

And  yet  but  half  the  truth  is  told: 

I  do  thee  wrong,  sagacious  Mentor, — ■ 

Calypso  could  not  be  consoled 
Until  another  man  was  sent  her! 

James  Jeffrey  Roche. 


[  205  ] 


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VALENTINE 

GREAT  Antony,  I  drink  to  thee, 
The  Roman  lover  bold, 
Who  knew  the  worth  of  love  and  earth 
And  gave  the  dross  for  gold. 

Rich  Antony,  I  envy  thee. 

Who  hadst  a  world  to  stake, 
And,  win  or  lose,  didst  bravely  choose 

To  risk  it  for  Her  sake. 

Poor  Antony,  I  pity  thee. 

So  small  a  world  w^as  thine, 
I'd  scorn  to  lay  the  prize  to-day 

Before  my  Valentine! 

James  Jeffrey  Roche. 


BIFTEK  AUX  CHAMPIGNONS 

MIMI,  do  you  remem.ber — 
Don't  get  behind  your  fan- 
That  morning  in  September 
On  the  cliffs  of  Grand  Manan, 
Where  to  the  shock  of  Fundy 
The  topmost  harebells  sway 
(Campanula  rotundt — • 
jolia:  cf.  Gray)  ? 

[  206  ] 


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On  the  pastures  high  and  level, 

That  overlook  the  sea, 
Where  I  wondered  what  the  devil 

Those  little  things  could  be 
That  Mimi  stooped  to  gather. 

As  she  strolled  across  the  down. 
And  held  her  dress  skirt  rather — 

Oh,  now,  you  needn't  frown. 

For  you  know  the  dew  was  heavy. 
And  your  boots,  I  know,  were  thin; 

So  a  little  extra  brevi- 
ty in  skirts  was  sure,  no  sin. 

Besides,  who  minds  a  cousin  ? 
First,  second,  even  third, — ■ 

I've  kissed  'em  by  the  dozen. 
And  they  never  once  demurred. 

"If  one's  allowed  to  ask  it," 

Quoth  I,  "Ma  belle  cousiiie. 
What  have  you  in  your  basket  ?" 

Those  baskets  white  and  green 
The  brave  Passamaquoddies 

Weave  out  of  scented  grass, 
And  sell  to  tourist  bodies 

W^ho  through  Mt.  Desert  pass. 

You  answered,  slightly  frowning, 
"Put  down  your  stupid  book — • 

That  everlasting  Browning! — 
And  come  and  help  me  look, 

[  207  ] 


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Mushroom  you  spik  him  English, 

I  call  him  champignon: 
I'll  teach  you  to  distinguish 

The  right  kind  from  the  wrong." 

There  was  no  fog  on  Fundy 

That  blue  September  day; 
The  west  wind,  for  that  one  day, 

Had  swept  it  all  away. 
The  lighthouse  glasses  twinkled, 

The  white  gulls  screamed  and  flew, 
The  merry  sheep-bells  tinkled, 

The  merry  breezes  blew. 

The  bayberry  aromatic. 

The  papery  immortelles 
(That  give  our  grandma's  attic 

That  sentimental  smell. 
Tied  up  in  little  brush-brooms) 

Were  sweet  as  new-mown  hay. 
While  we  went  hunting  mushrooms 

That  blue  September  day. 

Henry  Augustin  Beers. 


[  208] 


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AN  EXPLANATION 


ER  li 


HILK  lips  were  so  near 
That  what — else  could  I  do  ? 
You'll  be  angry,  I  fear, 
But  her  lips  were  so  near — ■ 
Well,  I  can't  make  it  clear, 

Or  explain  it  to  you, 
But — her  lips  were  so  near 
That — what  else  could  I  do  ? 

Walter  Learned, 


MARJORIE'S  KISSES 

MARJORIE  laughs  and  climbs  on  my  knee, 
And  I  kiss  her  and  she  kisses  me, 
I  kiss  her,  but  I  don't  much  care, 
Because,  although  she  is  charming  and  fair, 
Marjorie's  only  three. 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  I  ween. 
When,  if  I  tell  her  of  this  little  scene. 
She  will  smile  and  prettily  blush,  and  then 
I  shall  long  in  vain  to  kiss  her  again. 
When  Marjorie's  seventeen. 

Walter  Learned. 

[  209  ] 


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MISS  NANCY'S  GOWN 

IN  days  when  George  the  Third  was  King 
And  ruled  the  Old  Dominion, 
And  Law  and  Fashion  owned  the  sway 
Of  Parliament's  opinion, 
A  good  ship  brought  across  the  sea 

A  treasure  fair  and  fine, — 
Miss  Nancy's  gown  from  London  Town, 
The  latest  Court  design! 

The  plaited  waist  from  neck  to  belt 

Scarce  measured  half  a  span; 
The  sleeves,  balloon-like,  at  the  top 

Could  hold  her  feather  fan; 
The  narrow  skirt  with  bias  gore 

Revealed  an  ankle  neat, 
Whene'er  she  put  her  dainty  foot 

From  carriage  step  to  street! 

By  skilful  hands  this  wondrous  gown 

Of  costliest  stuff  was  made, 
Cocoons  of  France  on  Antwerp  looms 

Wrought  to  embossed  brocade, 
Where  roses  red  and  violets 

In  blooming  beauty  grew. 
As  if  young  May  were  there  alway, 

And  June  and  April  too! 
[210] 


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And  from  this  bower  of  delight 

Miss  Nancy  reigned  a  Queen, 
Nor  one  disloyal  heart  rebelled 

In  all  her  wild  demesne: 
The  noble  House  of  Burgesses 

Forgot  its  fierce  debate 
O'er  rights  of  Crown,  when  Nancy's  gown 

Appeared  in  Halls  of  State! 

Through  jocund  reel,  or  measured  tread 

Of  stately  minuet, 
Like  fairy  vision  shone  the  bloom 

Of  rose  and  violet, 
As,  hand  in  hand  with  Washington, 

The  hero  of  the  day, 
The  smiling  face  and  nymph-like  grace 

Of  Nancy  led  the  way! 

A  century,  since  that  gay  time 

The  merry  dance  was  trod. 
Has  passed,  and  Nancy  long  has  slept 

Beneath  the  churchyard  sod; 
Yet  on  the  brocade  velvet  gown 

The  rose  and  violet 
Are  blooming  bright  as  on  the  night 

She  danced  the  minuet! 

Zitella  Cocke. 


[2II] 


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"LE  DERNIER  JOUR  D'UN  CONDAMNE" 

OLD  coat,  for  some  three  or  four  seasons 
We've  been  jolly  comrades,  but  now 
We  part,  old  companion,  forever; 
To  fate,  and  the  fashion,  I  bow^. 
You'd  look  well  enough  at  a  dinner, 
I'd  wear  you  with  pride  at  a  ball; 
But  I'm  dressing  to-night  for  a  wedding — 
My  own — and  you'd  not  do  at  all. 

You've  too  many  wine-stains  about  you, 

You're  scented  too  much  with  cigars. 
When  the  gaslight  shines  full  on  your  collar 

It  glitters  with  myriad  stars, 
That  wouldn't  look  well  at  my  wedding; 

They'd  seem  inappropriate  there — 
Nell  doesn't  use  diamond  powder. 

She  tells  me  it  ruins  the  hair. 

You've  been  out  on  Cozzen's  piazza 

Too  late,  when  the  evenings  were  damp, 
When  the  moon-beams  were  silvering  Cro'nest, 

And  the  lights  were  all  out  in  the  camp. 
You've  rested  on  highly-oiled  stairways 

Too  often,  when  sweet  eyes  were  bright. 
And  somebody's  ball  dress — not  Nellie's — ■ 

Flowed  'round  you  in  rivers  of  white. 

[   21-   ] 


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There's  a  reprobate  looseness  about  you; 

Should  I  wear  you  to-night,  I  believe, 
As  I  come  with  my  bride  from  the  altar, 

You'd  laugh  in  your  wicked  old  sleeve, 
When  you  felt  there  the  tremulous  pressure 

Of  her  hand,  in  its  delicate  glove. 
That  is  telling  me  shyly,  but  proudly, 

Her  trust  is  as  deep  as  her  love. 

So,  go  to  your  grave  in  the  wardrobe. 

And  furnish  a  feast  for  the  moth, 
Nell's  glove  shall  betray  its  sweet  secrets 

To  younger,  more  innocent  cloth. 
'Tis  time  to  put  on  your  successor — 

It's  made  in  a  fashion  that's  new; 
Old  coat,  I'm  afraid  it  will  never 

Sit  as  easily  on  me  as  you. 

George  A.  Baker. 


MY  WOOING 

ONE  evening,  many  months  ago, 
We  two  conversed  together; 
It  must  have  been  in  June  or  so, 
For  sultry  was  the  weather. 
The  waving  branches  made  the  ground 

With  lights  and  shadows  quiver; 
We  sat  upon  a  grassy  mound 
That  overhung  a  river. 

[  213  ] 


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We  thought,  as  you've  perhaps  inferred, 

Our  destinies  of  linking: 
But  neither  of  us  spoke  a  word. 

For  each  of  us  was  thinking. 
Her  ma  had  lands  at  Skibbereen, 

Her  pa  estates  in  Devon; 
And  she  was  barely  seventeen, 

And  I  was  thirty-seven. 

We  gathered  blossoms  from  the  bank. 

And  in  the  water  flung  them: 
We  watched  them  as  they  rose  and  sank 

With  flakes  of  foam  among  them. 
As  towards  the  falls  in  mimic  race 

They  sailed — these  heads  of  clover — 
We  watched  them  quicken  in  their  pace. 

We  watched  them  tumble  over. 

We  watched  them;  and  our  calm  repose 

Seemed  calmer  for  their  troubles; 
We  watched  them  as  they  sank  and  rose 

And  battled  with  the  bubbles. 
We  noticed  then  a  little  bird, 

Down  at  the  margin,  drinking: 
But  neither  of  us  spoke  a  word, 

For  each  of  us  was  thinking. 

• 

At  length  I  thought  I  fairly  might 
Declare  my  passion  frantic: 

(The  scenery,  I'm  sure,  was  quite 
Sufficiently  romantic.) 
[  214] 


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I'd  heard  a  proverb  short  and  quaint 

My  memory — though  shady — 
Informed  me  it  began  with  "faint," 

And  finished  up  with  "lady." 

I  summoned  then  the  pluck  to  speak: 

(I  felt  I'd  have  to,  one  day, 
I  only  saw  her  once  a  week. 

And  this  was  only  Monday.) 
I  called  her  angel,  duck,  and  dove, 

I  said  I  loved  her  dearly. 
My  words — the  whisperings  of  Love — 

Were  eloquent,  or  nearly. 

I  told  her  that  my  heart  was  true, 

And  constant  as  the  river: 
I  said,  "I'll  love  you  as  I  do, 

'For  ever  and  for  ever!' 
Oh!  let  me  hear  that  voice  divine—  ' 

I  stopped  a  bit  and  listened; 
I  murmured  then,  "Be  mine,  be  mine," 

She  said,  "I  won't!" — and  isn't. 

Edwin  Hamilton. 

WINTRY  PARIS 

OH,  the  dingy  winter  days! 
Oh,  the  woven  blues  and  greys! 

Oh,  the  drizzles  and  the  puddles  and  the 
freezing! 
Nippy  Paris  to  New  York 
Is  a  sinker  to  a  cork 

Superstition  and  tradition  all  her  pleasing. 

[215] 


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Oh,  the  glacial  Gallic  gloom 
In  a  candle-darkened  room 

Sends  the  spirit  of  a  Gothamite  to  zero 
When  I  found  the  fire  dead 
And  sped  shuddering  to  bed. 

How  I  longed  to  dream  of  burning  Rome  and 
Nero! 

Don't  believe  them  when  they  say 
The  Parisians  all  are  gay; 

Not  a  capital  where  gaiety  so  rare  is. 
Why,  I  positively  think 
My  Manhattan  blues  are  pink 

When  contrasted  with  the  blues  I  had  in  Paris. 

Anonymous. 


THE  ROSE 

MY  Lilla  gave  me  yestermorn 
A  rose,  methinks  in  Eden  born, 
And  as  she  gave  it,  little  elf! 
She  blush'd  like  any  rose  herself. 
Then  said  I,  full  of  tenderness, 

"Since  this  sweet  rose  I  owe  to  you. 
Dear  girl,  why  may  I  not  possess 
The  lovelier  Rose  that  gave  it  too  ?" 

Anonymous. 


[216] 


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gy 


INDECISION 

DO  I  love  her  ? 
Dimpling  red  lips  at  me  pouting, 
Dimpling  shoulders  at  me  flouting; 
No,  I  don't! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 
'Prisoned  in  those  crystal  eyes 
Purity  forever  lies; 

Yes,  I  do! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 
Little,  wild  and  wilful  fiction, 
Teasing,  torturing  contradiction; 

No,  I  don't! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 
With  kind  acts  and  sweet  words  she 
Aids  and  comforts  poverty; 

Yes,  I  do! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 
Quick  she  puts  her  cuirass  on. 
Stabs  with  laughter,  stings  with  scorn; 

No,  I  don't! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 
No!     Then  to  my  arms  she  flies, 
Filling  me  with  glad  surprise; 
Ah,  yes  I  do! 

Anonymous. 
[217  1 


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LOGIC 


I.       HER   RESPECTABLE    PAPa's 


MY  Dear,  be  sensible.     Upon  my  word, 
This — for  a  woman  even — is  absurd. 
His  income's  not  a  hundred  pounds,  I 
know. 
He's  not  worth  loving." — "But  I  love  him  so." 


II.     HER  mother's 


'You  silly  child,  he  is  well  made  and  tall; 
But  looks  are  far  from  being  all  in  all. 
His  social  standing's  low,  his  family's  low. 
He's  not  worth  loving." — "And  I  love  him  so." 

III.      HER    eternal   friend's 

'Is  that  he  picking  up  the  fallen  fan  ? 
My  Dear!  he's  such  an  awkward,  ugly  man! 
You  must  be  certain,  pet,  to  answer  'No.' 
He's  not  worth  loving." — "And  I  love  him  so." 


IV.      HER   brother's 


'By  Jove,  were  I  a  girl — thro'  horrid  hap — 
I  wouldn't  have  a  milk-and-water  chap. 
The  man  has  not  a  single  spark  of  *go,' 
He's  not  worth  loving." — "Yet,  I  love  him  so. 

[218] 


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V.       HER    OWN 

'And  were  he  everything  to  which  I've  Hstened; 
Though  he  were  ugly,  awkward  (and  he  isn't) — ■ 
Poor,  low-born,  and  destitute  of  'go,' 
He  IS  worth  loving,  for  I  love  him  so!" 

Punch. 


CONVERSATIONAL 

HOW'S  your  father?"  came  the  whisper, 
Bashful  Ned  the  silence  breaking; 
"Oh,  he's  nicely,"  Annie  murmured, 
Smilingly  the  question  taking. 

Conversation  flagged  a  moment. 
Hopeless  Ned  essayed  another: 
"Annie,  I — I,"  then  a  coughing. 

And  the  question,  "How's  your  mother?" 

"Mother?  Oh,  she's  doing  finely!" 
Fleeting  fast  was  all  forbearance, 
When  in  low,  despairing  accents. 

Came  the  climax,  "How's  your  parents  ?" 

Anonymous. 


[219] 


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IF.  YOU  WANT  A  KISS,  WHY,  TAKE  IT 

THERE'S  a  jolly  Saxon  proverb 
That  is  pretty  much  like  this — 
That  a  rnan  is  half  in  heaven 
If  he  has  a  woman's  kiss. 
There  is  danger  in  delaying, 

For  the  sweetness  may  forsake  it; 
So  I  tell  you,  bashful  lover. 

If  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 

Never  let  another  fellow 

Steal  a  march  on  you  in  this; 
Never  let  a  laughing  maiden 

See  you  spoiling  for  a  kiss. 
There's  a  royal  way  to  kissing. 

And  the  jolly  ones  who  make  it 
Have  a  motto  that  is  winning, — 

If  you  want  a  kiss,  wh)^  take  it. 

Any  fool  may  face  a  cannon. 

Anybody  wear  a  crown. 
But  a  man  must  win  a  woman 

If  he'd  have  her  for  his  own. 
Would  you  have  the  golden  apple. 

You  must  find  the  tree  and  shake  it; 
If  the  thing  is  worth  the  having. 

And  you  want  a  kiss,  why   take  it. 
[  220  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Who  would  burn  upon  a  desert 

With  a  forest  smiHng  by  ? 
Who  would  change  his  sunny  summer 

For  a  bleak  and  wintry  sky  ? 
Oh,  I  tell  you  there  is  magic, 

And  you  cannot,  cannot  break  it; 
For  the  sweetest  part  of  loving 

Is  to  want  a  kiss,  and  take  it. 

Anonymous. 


EDUCATIONAL  COURTSHIP 

SHE  was  a  Boston  maiden,  and  she'd  scarcely 
passed  eighteen. 
And  as  lovely  as  an  houri,  but  of  grave  and 
sober  mien, 
A  sweet  encyclopaedia  of  every  kind  of  lore, 
Though  love  looked  coyly  from  behind  the  glasses 
that  she  wore. 

She  sat  beside  her  lover,  with  her  elbow  on  his  knee. 

And  dreamily  she  gazed  upon  the  slumbering  sum- 
mer sea. 

Until  he  broke  the  silence,  saying,  "Pray,  Minerva, 
dear. 

Inform  me  of  the  meaning  of  the  Thingness  of  the 
Here? 

[  221    ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

"I  know  you're  just  from  Concord,  where  the  lights 

of  wisdom  be, 
Your  head  crammed   full  to    bursting  with   their 

philosophy, — 
Those   hairy-headed   sages   and   maids  of  hosiery 

blue; 
Then  solve  me  the  conundrum,  love,  that  I  have 

put  to  you." 

She  smiled  a  dreamy  smile,  and  said,  "The  Thing- 
ness of  the  Here 

Is  that  which  is  not  passed  and  hasn't  yet  arrived, 
my  dear. 

Indeed,"  the  maid  continued,  with  a  calm,  un- 
ruffled brow, 

"The  Thingness  of  the  Here  is  just  the  Thingness 
of  the  Now." 

A  smile  illumed  the  lover's  face;  then,  without  un- 
due haste. 

He  slid  a  manly  arm  around  the  maiden's  slender 
waist. 

And  on  her  cherry  lips  impressed  a  warm  and  lov- 
ing kiss. 

And  said,  "Love,  this  is  what  I  call  the  Newness 
of  the  This." 

Anonymous. 


[  222  ] 


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KISSING'S  NO  SIN 

SOME  say  that  kissing's  a  sin; 
But  I  think  it's  nane  ava, 
For  kissing  has  wonn'd  in  this  warld 
Since  ever  there  was  twa. 

O,  if  it  wasna  lawfu' 

Lawyers  wadna  allow  it; 
If  it  wasna  holy, 

Ministers  wadna  do  it. 

If  it  wasna  modest, 

Maidens  wadna  tak'  it; 
If  it  wasna  plenty, 

Puir  folks  wadna  get  it. 


An 


mous. 


ony 


THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE  WORLD 

WHAT'S  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? 
June-rose,  by  May-dew  impearled; 
Sweet  south-wind,  that  means  no  rain; 
Truth,  not  cruel  to  a  friend; 
Pleasure,  not  in  haste  to  end; 
Beauty,  not  self-decked  and  curled 
Till  its  pride  is  over-plain; 
Light,  that  never  makes  you  wink; 
Memory,  that  gives  no  pain; 
Love,  when,  so,  you're  loved  again. 
What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? — 
Something  out  of  it,  I  think. 

Anonymous. 
[  223  ] 


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HER  NEIGHBOURS 

THEY  lingered  at  her  father's  door, 
The  moon  was  shining  bright, 
And  to  the  maiden  o'er  and  o'er 
The  youth  had  said,  "Good  night." 

But  still  reluctant  to  depart, 

Her  tiny  hand  he  pressed. 
While  all  the  love  that  filled  his  heart 

His  ardent  looks  confessed. 

At  length  she  closer  to  him  crept, 

Her  eyes  upon  him  bent. 
And  softly  asked,  "How  have  you  kept, 

Thus  far,  the  fast  of  Lent?" 

He  smiled,  and,  as  a  manly  arm 

Around  her  waist  he  threw, 
He  said,  "I've  done  no  neighbour  harm — 

Pray,  tell  me,  how  have  you  ?" 

'Oh!  better  far,  I'm  sure,"  she  said. 

The  charming  little  elf. 
"I've  loved  (she  blushed  and  bent  her  head) 

My  neighbour  as  myself." 

"Who  is  your  neighbour?"  questioned  he, 
As  to  his  breast  he  drew 
The  gentle  maid,  and  blushing,  she 
With  one  word  answered — "You." 

Anonymous. 

[  224  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


TO  CELIA 

{Who  refuses  to  be  drawn  into  an  argument) 

DEAR,  if  you  carelessly  agree, 
With  that  so  irritating  air. 
To  every  word  that  falls  from  me — 
Dear,  if  you  care 

To  drive  a  lover  to  despair 

With  bland  "Oh,  yes,"  and  "Ah,  I  see,"— 
Why,  do  it,  if  you  like — so  there! 

It  vindicates  my  theory 

No  woman's  wise  as  well  as  fair; 
And  yet  .  .  .  how  clever  you  can  be, 

Dear,  if  you  care! 

E.  H.  Lacon  Watson. 


IN  FOR  IT 

I  ROSE  betimes,  and  donned  a  suit 
Of  clothes,  whose  fit  immaculate 
Was  not  a  question  for  dispute, 
Whose  cut  was  far  above  debate. 
I  breakfasted,  or  rather  tried, 

But  strange  my  appetite  behaving, 
A.,  B.  and  S.  alone  supplied 
My  feeble  craving. 

[  225  ] 


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I  fidgeted  about  the  place, 

I  smoothed  my  hat  some  twenty  times, 
I  almost  cursed  the  clock's  slow  pace 

And  listened  for  the  neighb'ring  chimes- 
I  stretched  my  gloves— they  were  a  pair 

Of  lemon  kids,  extremely  "fetching"; 
And  so  I  used  peculiar  care 

About  the  stretching. 

'Twas  past  eleven  when  my  friena 

Arrived,  and  took  me  'neath  his  wing, 

For  he  had  promised  to  attend 
Upon  me  kindly,  and  "to  bring 

Me  smiling  to  the  scratch,"  as  he 
Was  pleased  to  term  it,  being  merry, 

'Twas  quite  another  thing  with  me; 
'Twas  diff'rent,  very. 

We  drove  to  Church,  and  there  I  found 
Myself  the  object  of  each  gaze; 

I  hardly  dared  to  look  around, 
I  felt  completely  in  a  maze — 

We  had  to  wait,  I  dropped  my  hat. 
Then  split  a  glove  in  very  flurry. 

Grew  hot,  and  wished  devoutly  that 
The  rest  would  hurry. 

When  all  was  o'er,  we  had  to  face 

A  grinning  crowd's  rude  gaping  stare, 

I  strove  to  don  unconscious  grace, 
And  look  as  if  I  didn't  care— 
[  226  ] 


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We  braved  it  out,  got  home,  and  then 

There  came  a  plethora  of  kissin': 
Of  course  I  took  good  care  the  men 
Did  not  join  this  in. 

We  next  were  victims  of  a  meal, 

A  melancholy  sad  pretence, 
And  I  thereat  was  made  to  feel 
How  hard  it  is  to  utter  sense: 
The  carriage  came  at  last,  and  we 

For  not  a  single  moment  tarried, 
And  driving  off,  it  dawned  on  me 
That  I  was  married. 

Somerville  Gibney. 


KIRTLE  RED 

A  DAMSEL  fair,  on  a  summer's  day — 
—Sing  heigh,  sing  ho,  for  the  summer! 
Sat  under  a  tree  in  a  kirtle  gray, 
Singing,  "Somebody's  late  at  tryst  to-day; 
Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may. 
Or  the  leaves  may  fall  in  summer!" 

Answered  a  little  bird  overhead — ■ 

As  birds  will  do  in  summer; 
'Some  body  has  kept  tryst,"  it  said, 
'With  somebody  else  in  a  kirtle  red. 
And  they  are  going  to  be  married." 
Sing  heigh,  sing  ho,  for  the  summer! 
[  227  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A ntliology 

'With  all  my  heart,  little  biid,"  said  she; 

Sing  heigh,  sing  ho,  for  the  summer! 
'He's  welcome  to  kirtle  red  for  me; 
Somebody's  fast,  while  somebody's  free! 
There's  nothing,  no,  nothing,  like  libertie!" 
— Sing  heigh,  sing  ho,  for  the  summer! 

W.  H.  Bellamy. 


A  BAGATELLE 

A  BAGATELLE!     Ah,  Mistress  Prue, 
So  gaily  laughing  all  life  through. 
You  call  it  that,  the  flower  you  fling 
Lightly  aside,  the  song  you  sing, 
The  fan,  the  glove  no  longer  new. 

But  to  your  careless  eyes  of  blue 
A  bow,  a  heart  that's  fond  and  true. 

Is,  like  your  glove,  that  worthless  thing — 

A  bagatelle. 

While  I  who  prize  your  glove,  your  shoe, 
The  rose  that  o'er  your  lips  you  drew. 
Hold  worthless  spring's  fresh  blossoming. 
Hold  worthless  life's  whole  offering. 
Because  my  love  is  but  to  you 

A  bagatelle. 

James  G.  Burnett. 


[  228  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A rzthology 


A  LOVE  TEST 

SWEET,  do  you  ask  me  if  you  love  or  no  ? 
Soon  will  your  answers  to  my  questions  show: 
If  in  your  cheeks  hot  blushes  come  and  go, 
Like  rose-leaves  shaken  on  new-fallen  snow; 
If  tender  sorrows  in  your  heart  arise. 
And  sudden  teardrops  tremble  in  your  eyes; 
If  from  my  presence  you  would  sigh  to  part, 
Believe  me,  darling,  I  have  touched  your  heart. 

If  when  I  speak  your  blue-veined  eyelids  sink, 
And  veil  the  thoughts  you  scarcely  dare  to  think: 
If  when  I  greet  you,  hardly  you  reply. 
And  when  we  part,  but  breathe  a  faint  "Good- 
bye!" 
If  your  sweet  face  to  mine  you  cannot  raise, 
Yet  fear  not  so  to  meet  another's  gaze; 
If  all  these  things  to  make  you  glad  combine, 
Believe  me,  darling,  that  your  heart  is  mine. 

Carl  Ilerlozssohn, 

THE  MISTAKEN  MOTH 

ID  the  summer  flush  of  roses 
Red  and  white. 
Sat  a  damsel  fair,  a  very 
Pretty  sight; 
Till  a  butterfly,  so  smart. 
With  a  flutter  and  a  dart, 
Kissed  her  mouth  and  made  her  start 
In  a  fright. 

[  229  ] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

"Ah,  forgive  me!"  begged  the  insect, 

"If  you  please; 
I  assure  you  that  I  didn't 

Mean  to  tease. 
I  but  took  your  rosebud  Hp 
For  the  rose  wherein  I  dip, 
All  its  honey  sweet  to  sip 

At  mine  ease." 

Said  the  beauty,,  to  the  moth, 

"You  may  try 
To  excuse  your  forward  conduct. 

Sir,  but  I 
Wish  it  clearly  understood 
That  such  roses  are  too  good 
To  be  kissed  by  every  rude 

Butterfly!" 

Translated  from  fFegener. 


MY  PRETTY  NEIGHBOR 

IF  you've  nothing,  dear,  to  tell  me. 
Why,  each  morning  passing  by. 
With  your  sudden  smiles  compel  me, 
To  adore  you,  then  repel  me. 
Pretty  little  neighbor,  why  ? 
Why  if  you  have  naught  to  tell  me, 
Do  you  so  my  patience  try  ? 

If  you've  nothing  sweet  to  teach  me. 
Tell  me  why  you  press  my  hand  ? 
I'll  attend  if  you'll  impeach  me 

[230] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Of  my  sins,  or  even  preach  me 

Sermons  hard  to  understand; 
But  if  you  have  naught  to  teach  me, 

Dear,  your  meaning  I  demand! 

If  you  wish  me,  love,  to  leave  you. 

Why  forever  walk  my  way  ? 
Then,  when  gladly  I  receive  you, 
Wherefore  do  I  seem  to  grieve  you  ? 
Must  I  then,  in  truth,  believe  you 

Wish  me,  darling,  far  away  ? 
Do  you  wish  me,  love,  to  leave  you  ? 

Pretty  little  neighbor,  say! 

Translated  from  Wegener. 


I 


IF 


F  a  man  could  live  a  thousand  years, 
When  half  his  life  had  passed, 
He  might,  by  strict  economy, 
A  fortune  have  amassed. 


Then  having  gained  some  common-sense. 

And  knowledge,  too,  of  life, 
He  could  select  the  woman  who 

Would  make  him  a  true  wife. 

But  as  it  is,  man  hasn't  time 

To  even  pay  his  debts, 
And  weds  to  be  acquainted  with 

The  woman  whom  he  gets. 

H.  C.  Dodge, 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A ntholo gy 


TO  MISTRESS  PYRRHA 

WHAT  perfumed,  posie-dizened  sirrah, 
With  smiles  for  diet. 
Clasps  you,  O  fair  but  faithless  Pyrrha, 
On  the  quiet  ? 
For  whom  do  you  bind  up  your  tresses, 

As  spun-gold  yellow, — 
Meshes  that  go  with  your  caresses, 
To  snare  a  fellow  ? 

How  will  he  rail  at  fate  capricious, 

And  curse  you  duly. 
Yet  now  he  deems  your  wnles  delicious, — 

You  perfect,  truly! 
Pyrrha,  your  love's  a  treacherous  ocean; 

He'll  soon  fall  in  there! 
Then  shall  I  gloat  on  his  commotion. 

For  I  have  been  there! 

Eugene  Field. 

THE  TEA-GOWN 

MY  lady  has  a  tea-gown 
That  is  wondrous  fair  to  see,^ — 
It  is  flounced  and  ruffed  and  plaited  and 
puffed. 
As  a  tea-gown  ought  to  be; 
And  I  thought  she  must  be  jesting 

Last  night  at  supper  when 
She  remarked  by  chance,  that  it  came  from  France,' 
And  had  cost  but  two  pounds  ten. 

[  232  ] 


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Had  she  told  me  fifty  shillings, 

I  might  (and  wouldn't  you  ?) 
Have  referred  to  that  dress  in  a  way  folks  express 

By  an  eloquent  dash  or  two; 
But  the  guileful  little  creature 

Knew  well  her  tactics  when 
She  casually  said  that  that  dream  in  red 

Had  cost  but  two  pounds  ten. 

Yet  our  home  is  all  the  brighter 

For  the  dainty,  sentient  thing. 
That  floats  away  where  it  properly  may, 

And  clings  where  it  ought  to  cling; 
And  I  count  myself  the  luckiest 

Of  all  us  married  men 
That  I  have  a  wife  whose  joy  in  life 

Is  a  gown  at  two  pounds  ten. 

It  isn't  the  gown  compels  me 

Condone  this  venial  sin; 
It's  the  pretty  face  above  the  lace, 

And  the  gentle  heart  within. 
And  with  her  arms  about  me 

I  say,  and  say  again, 
"Twas  wondrous  cheap," — and  I  think  a  heap 

Of  that  gown  at  two  pounds  ten! 

Eugene  Field. 


[  233  ] 


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*   A  PARAPHRASE 

HOW  happens  it,  my  cruel  miss, 
You're  always  giving  me  the  mitten  ? 
You  seem  to  have  forgotten  this: 
That  you  no  longer  are  a  kitten! 

A  woman  that  has  reached  the  years 
Of  that  which  people  call  discretion 

Should  put  away  all  childish  fears 

And  see  in  courtship  no  transgression. 

A  mother's  solace  may  be  sweet, 
But  Hymen's  tenderness  is  sweeter; 

And  though  all  virile  love  be  meet, 
You'll  find  the  poet's  love  is  metre. 

Eugene  Field. 


A  LEAP-YEAR  EPISODE 

CAN  I  forget  that  winter  night 
In  eighteen  eighty-four, 
When  Nellie,  charming  little  sprite, 
Came  tapping  at  the  door  ? 
"Good  evening,  miss,"  I  blushing  said, 

For  in  my  heart  I  knew — 
And,  knowing,  hung  my  pretty  head — 
That  Nellie  came  to  woo. 
[  234] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

She  clasped  my  big  red  hand,  and  fell 

Adown  upon  her  knees, 
And  cried:   "You  know  I  love  you  well, 

So  be  my  husband,  please!" 
And  then  she  swore  she'd  ever  be 

A  tender  wife  and  true — 
Ah,  what  delight  it  was  to  me 

That  Nellie  came  to  woo! 

She'd  lace  my  shoes  and  darn  my  hose 

And  mend  my  shirts,  she  said; 
And  grease  my  comely  Roman  nose 

Each  night  on  going  to  bed; 
She'd  build  the  fires  and  fetch  the  coal, 

And  split  the  kindling,  too — 
Love's  perjuries  o'erwhelmed  her  soul 

When  Nellie  came  to  woo. 

And  as  I  blushing,  gave  no  check 

To  her  advances  rash, 
She  twined  her  arms  about  my  neck, 

And  toyed  with  my  moustache; 
And  then  she  pleaded  for  a  kiss. 

While  I — what  could  I  do 
But  coyly  yield  me  to  that  bliss 

When  Nellie  came  to  woo  ? 

I  am  engaged,  and  proudly  wear 

A  gorgeous  diamond  ring. 
And  I  shall  wed  my  lover  fair 

Some  time  in  gentle  spring. 

[  235  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


I  face  my  doom  without  a  sigh — 

And  so,  forthsooth,  would  you, 
If  you  but  loved  as  fond  as  I 

The  Nellie  who  came  to  woo. 

Eugene  Field. 


BALLADE  OF  LADIES'  NAMES 

BROWN'S  for  Lalage,  Jones  for  Lelia, 
Robinson's  bosom  for  Beatrice  glows, 
Smith  is  a  Hamlet  before  Ophelia. 
The  glamour  stays  if  the  reason  goes! 
Every  lover  the  years  disclose 
Is  of  a  beautiful  name  made  free. 

One  befriends,  and  all  others  are  foes. 
Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 

Sentiment  hallows  the  vowels  of  Delia; 

Sweet  simplicity  breathes  from  Rose; 
Courtly  memories  glitter  m  Celia; 

Rosalind  savours  of  quips  and  hose, 

Araminta  of  wits  and  beaux, 
Prue  of  puddings,  and  Coralie 

All  of  sawdust  and  spangled  shows; 
Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 

Fie  upon  Caroline,  Madge,  Amelia— 
These  I  reckon  the  essence  of  prose!— 

Cavalier  Katharine,  cold  CorneHa, 
Portia's  masterful  Roman  nose, 
[236] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Maud's  magnificence,  Totty's  toes, 
Poll  and  Bet  with  their  twang  of  the  sea, 

Nell's  impertinence,  Pamela's  woes! 
Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 

ENVOY 

Ruth  like  a  gillyflower  smells  and  blows, 

Sylvia  prattles  of  Arcadee, 
Sybil  mystifies,  Connie  crows, 

Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me! 

fV.  E.  Henley. 


BALLADE  OF  JUNE 

LILACS  glow,  and  jasmines  climb. 
Larks  are  loud  the  livelong  day. 
O  the  golden  summer-prime! 
June  takes  up  the  sceptre  of  May, 
And  the  land  beneath  her  sway 
Glows,  a  dream  of  flowerful  closes, 

And  the  very  wind's  at  play 
With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 

Lights  and  shadows  in  the  lime 

Meet  in  exquisite  disarray. 
Hark!  the  rich  recurrent  rhyme 

Of  the  blackbird's  roundelay! 

Where  he  carols,  frank  and  gay, 
Fancy  no  more  glooms  or  proses; 

joyously  she  flits  away 
With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 

[237  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A  rithology 

O  the  cool  sea's  slumbrous  chime! 

O  the  links  that  beach  the  bay, 
Tricked  with  meadow-sweet  and  thyme, 

Where  the  brown  bees  murmur  and  stray! 

Lush  the  hedgerows,  ripe  the  hay! 
Many  a  maiden,  binding  posies. 

Finds  herself  at  Yea-and-Nay 
With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 

ENVOY 

Boys  and  girls,  be  wise,  I  pray! 

Do  as  dear  Queen  June  proposes. 
For  she  bids  you  troop  and  stay 

With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 

W.  E.  Henley. 


BALLADE  MADE  IN  THE  HOT  WEATHER 

MOUNTAINS  that  frisk  and  sprinkle 
The  moss  they  overspill; 
Grass  that  the  breezes  crinkle; 
The  wheel  beside  the  mill. 
With  its  wet,  weedy  frill; 
Wind-shadows  in  the  wheat; 
A  water-cart  in  the  street; 

The  fringe  of  foam  that  girds 
An  islet's  ferneries; 

A  green  sky's  minor  thirds — 
To  live,  I  think  of  these! 

[  238  ] 


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Of  ice  and  glass  the  tinkle, 

Pellucid,  silver-shrill; 
Peaches  without  a  wrinkle; 

Cherries  and  snow,  at  will 

From  china  bowls  that  fill 
The  senses  with  a  sweet 
Incuriousness  of  heat; 

A  melon's  dripping  sherds; 
Cream-clotted  strawberries; 

Dusk  dairies  set  with  curds — 
To  live,  I  think  of  these! 

Vale-lily  and  periwinkle; 

Wet  stone-crop  on  the  sill; 
The  look  of  leaves  a-twinkle 

With  windlets  clear  and  still; 

The  feel  of  a  forest  rill 
That  wimples  fresh  and  fleet 
About  one's  naked  feet; 

The  muzzles  of  drinking  herds; 
Lush  flags  and  bulrushes; 

The  chirp  of  rain-bound  birds — 
To  live,  I  think  of  these! 

■  ENVOY 

Dark  aisles,  new  packs  of  cards, 
Mermaidens'  tails,  cool  swards. 

Dawn  dews  and  starlit  seas. 
White  marbles,  whiter  words — 

To  live,  I  think  of  these! 

fF.  E.  Henley. 

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A  ROSE 

TWAS  a  Jacqueminot  rose 
That  she  gave  me  at  parting; 
Sweetest  flower  that  blows. 
'Twas  a  Jacqueminot  rose. 
In  the  love  garden  close, 

With  the  swift  blushes  starting, 
'Twas  a  Jacqueminot  rose 

That  she  gave  me  at  parting.  - 

If  she  kissed  it,  who  knows — • 

Since  I  will  not  discover, 
And  love  is  that  close. 
If  she  kissed  it,  who  knows  ? 
Or  if  not  the  red  rose 

Perhaps  then  the  lover! 
If  she  kissed  it,  who  knows, 

Since  I  will  not  discover. 

Yet  at  least  with  the  rose 

Went  a  kiss  that  I'm  wearing! 

More  I  will  not  disclose. 

Yet  at  least  with  the  rose 

Went  whose  kiss  no  one  knows, — 
Since  I'm  only  declaring, 

"Yet  at  least  with  the  rose 
Went  a  kiss  that  I'm  wearing. 


Arlo  Bates. 


[  240] 


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TO  MINNIE 

{With  a  Hand  Glass) 

A  PICTURE-FRAME  for  you  to  fill, 
A  paltry  setting  for  your  face, 
A  thing  that  has  no  worth  until 
You  lend  it  something  of  your  grace, 

I  send  (unhappy  I  that  sing 

Laid  by  awhile  upon  the  shelf) 
Because  I  would  not  send  a  thing 

Less  charming  than  you  are  yourself. 

And  happier  than  I,  alas! 

(Dumb  thing,  I  envy  its  delight) 
'Twill  wish  you  well,  the  looking-glass, 

And  look  you  in  the  face  to-night. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 

SHE'S  had  a  Vassar  education, 
And  points  with  pride  to  her  degrees; 
She's  studied  household  decoration: 
She  knows  a  dado  from  a  frieze. 
And  tells  Corots  from  Boldonis; 
A  Jacquemart  etching,  or  a  Haden, 

A  Whistler,  too,  perchance  might  please 
A  free  and  frank  young  Yankee  maiden. 

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She  does  not  care  for  meditation; 

Within  her  bonnet  are  no  bees; 
She  has  a  gentle  animation, 

She  joins  in  singing  simple  glees. 

She  tries  no  trills,  no  rivalries 
With  Lucca  (now  Baronin  Raden), 

With  Nilsson  or  with  Gerster;    she's 
A  free  and  frank  young  Yankee  maiden. 

I'm  blessed  above  the  whole  creation, 

Far,  far,  above  all  other  he's; 
I  ask  you  for  congratulation 

On  this  the  best  of  jubilees: 

I  go  with  her  across  the  seas 
Unto  what  Poe  would  call  an  Aiden, — 

I  hope  no  servant's  there  to  tease 
A  free  and  frank  young  Yankee  maiden. 

ENVOY 

Princes,  to  you  the  western  breeze 
Bears  many  a  ship  and  heavy  laden, 

What  is  the  best  we  send  in  these  ? 

A  free  and  frank  young  Yankee  maiden. 

Brander  Matthews. 

LARKS  AND  NIGHTINGALES, 

ALONE  I  sit  at  eventide: 
/A  The  twilight  glory  pales, 

And  o'er  the  meadows  far  and  wide 
Chant  pensive  bobolinks. 
(One  might  say  nightingales!) 
[  242  ] 


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^ 

Song-sparrows  warble  on  the  tree, 

I  hear  the  purHng  brook, 
And  from  the  old  "manse  o'er  the  lea" 

Flies  slow  the  cawing  crow. 
(In  England  'twere  a  rook!) 

The  last  faint  golden  beams  of  day 

Still  glow  on  cottage  panes. 
And  on  their  lingering  homeward  way 

Walk  weary  laboring  men. 
(Oh,  that  we  had  swains!) 

From  farm-yards,  down  fair  rural  glades 
Come  sounds  of  tinkling  bells. 

And  songs  of  merry  brown  milkmaids. 
Sweeter  than  oriole's. 

(Yes,  thank  you — Philomel's!) 

I  could  sit  here  till  mornmg  came, 
All  through  the  night  hours  dark. 

Until  I  saw  the  sun's  bright  flame 
And  heard  the  chickadee. 

(Alas!  we  have  no  lark!) 

We  have  no  leas,  no  larks,  no  rooks, 

No  swains,  no  nightingales. 
No  singing  milkmaids  (save  in  books): 

The  poet  does  his  best — 
It  is  the  rhyme  that  fails! 

Nathan  Haskell  Dole. 


[  243  ] 


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CAELI 

IF  stars  were  really  watching  eyes 
Of  angel  armies  in  the  skies, 
I  should  forget  all  watchers  there, 
And  only  for  your  glances  care. 

And  if  your  eyes  were  really  stars, 
With  leagues  that  none  can  mete  for  bars 
To  keep  me  from  their  longed-for  day, 
I  could  not  feel  more  far  away. 

Francis  William  Bourdillon. 


LADY  MINE 

IADY  mine,  most  fair  thou  art 
With  youth's  gold  and  white  and  red; 
'Tis  a  pity  that  thy  heart 
Is  so  much  harder  than  thy  head. 

This  has  stayed  my  kisses  oft, 

This  from  all  thy  charms  debarr'd, 

That  thy  head  is  strangely  soft. 
While  thy  heart  is  strangely  hard. 

Nothing  had  kept  us  apart — • 

I  had  loved  thee,  I  had  wed — 
Hadst  thou  had  a  softer  heart 

Or  a  harder  head. 

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But  I  think  I'll  bear  Love's  smart 
Till  the  wound  has  healed  and  fled, 

Or  thy  head  is  like  thy  heart, 
Or  thy  heart  is  like  thy  head. 

Herbert  Edwin  Clarke. 


THE  RIPEST  PEACH* 

THE  ripest  peach  is  highest  on  the  tree — 
And  so  her  love,  beyond  the  reach  of  me. 
Is  dearest  in  my  sight.     Sweet  breezes,  bow 
Her  heart  down  to  me  where  I  worship  now! 

She  looms  aloft  where  every  eye  may  see 
The  ripest  peach  is  highest  on  the  tree. 
Such  fruitage  as  her  love  I  know,  alas! 
I  may  not  reach  here  from  the  orchard  grass. 

I  drink  the  sunshine  showered  past  her  lips 
As  roses  drain  the  dewdrop  as  it  drips. 
The  ripest  peach  is  highest  on  the  tree, 
And  so  mine  eyes  gaze  upward  eagerly. 

Why — why  do  I  not  turn  away  in  wrath 
And  pluck  some  heart  here  hanging  in  my  path  ? — ■ 
Love's  lower  boughs  bend  with  them — but,  ah  me! 
The  ripest  peach  is  highest  on  the  tree. 

"James  Whitcornb  Riley. 


*  From  "  Old- Fashioned  Roses,"  copyright  1006.    Used  by  special    per- 
mission of  the  publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 

[   245   ] 


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I  JOURNEYED   SOUTH  TO  MEET  THE 
SPRING" 


I 


JOURNEYED  South  to  meet  the  Spring 
To  feel  the  soft  tide's  gentle  rise 
That  to  my  heart  again  should  bring, 
Foretold  by  many  a  whispering  wing, 
The  old,  the  new,  the  sweet  surprise. 


For  once,  the  wonder  was  not  new — 

And  yet  it  wore  a  newer  grace: 
For  all  its  innocence  of  hue, 
Its  warmth  and  bloom  and  dream  and  dew, 

I  had  but  left — in  Helen's  face. 

Robert  Underwood  'Johnson. 


BEFORE  THE  BLOSSOM 

IN  the  tassel-time  of  spring 
Love's  the  only  song  to  sing; 
Ere  the  ranks  of  solid  shade 
Hide  the  bluebird's  flitting  wing, 

While  in  open  forest  glade 
No  mysterious  sound  or  thing 

Haunt  of  green  has  found  or  made, 
Love's  the  only  song  to  sing. 

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Though  in  May  each  bush  be  dressed 
Like  a  bride,  and  every  nest 

Learn  Love's  joyous  repetend, 
Yet  the  half-told  tale  is  best 

At  the  budding, — with  its  end 
Much  too  secret  to  be  guessed, 

And  its  fancies  that  attend 
April's  passion  unexpressed. 

Love  and  Nature  communing  , 

Gave  us  Arcady.     Still  ring — 

Vales  across  and  groves  among — 
Wistful  memories,  echoing 

Pans  far-ofF  and  fluty  song 
Poet!  nothing  harsher  sing; 

Be,  like  Love  and  Nature,  young 
In  the  tassel-time  of  spring. 

Robert  Underivood  Johtison. 


LOVE  IN  THE  CALENDAR 

WHEN  chinks  in  April's  windy  dome 
Let  through  a  day  of  June, 
And  foot  and  thought  incline  to  roam, 
And  every  sound's  a  tune; 
When  Nature  fills  a  fuller  cup. 

And  hides  with  green  the  gray, — 
Then,  lover,  pluck  your  courage  up 
To  try  your  fate  in  May. 

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Though  proud  she  was  as  sunset  clad 

In  Autumn's  fruity  shades, 
Love  too  is  proud,  and  brings  (gay  lad!) 

Humility  to  maids. 
Scorn  not  from  nature's  mood  to  learn, 

Take  counsel  of  the  day: 
Since  haughty  skies  to  tender  turn, 

Go  try  your  fate  in  May. 

Though  cold  she  seemed  as  pearly  light 

Adown  December  eves. 
And  stern  as  night  when  March  winds  smite 

The  beech's  lingering  leaves; 
Yet  Love  hath  seasons  like  the  year, 

And  grave  will  turn  to  gay, — 
Then,  lover,  hearken  not  to  fear, 

But  try  your  fate  in  May. 

And  you  whose  art  it  is  to  hide 

The  constant  love  you  feel: 
Beware,  lest  overmuch  of  pride 

Your  happiness  shall  steal. 
No  longer  pout,  for  May  is  here, 

And  hearts  will  have  their  way; 
Love's  in  the  calendar,  my  dear. 

So  yield  to  fate — and  May! 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson, 


[248] 


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MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  TURKEY-TAIL  FAN 

IT  owned  not  a  color  that  vanity  dons 
Or  slender  wits  choose  for  display; 
Its  beautiful  tint  was  a  delicate  bronze, 
A  brown  softly  blended  with  gray. 
From  her  waist  to  her  chin,  spreading  out  without 
break, 
'Twas  built  on  a  generous  plan: 
The  pride  of  the  forest  was  slaughtered  to  make 
My  grandmother's  turkey-tail  fan. 

For  common  occasions  it  never  was  meant: 

In  a  chest  between  two  silken  cloths 
'Twas  kept  safely  hidden  with  careful  intent 

In  camphor  to  keep  out  the  moths. 
'Twas  famed  far  and  wide  through  the  whole  coun- 
try side, 

From  Beersheba  e'en  unto  Dan; 
And  often  at  meeting  with  envy  'twas  eyed, 

My  grandmother's  turkey-tail  fan. 

Camp-meetings,  indeed,  were  its  chiefest  delight. 

Like  a  crook  unto  sheep  gone  astray 
It  beckoned  backsliders  to  re-seek  the  right. 

And  exhorted  the  sinners  to  pray. 
It  always  beat  time  when  the  choir  went  wrong, 

In  psalmody  leading  the  van. 
Old  Hundred,  I  know,  was  its  favorite  song — 

My  grandmother's  turkey-tail  fan. 

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A  fig  for  the  fans  that  are  made  nowadays, 

Suited  only  to  frivolous  mirth! 
A  different  thing  was  the  fan  that  I  praise, 

Yet  it  scorned  not  the  good  things  of  earth. 
At  bees  and  at  quiltings  'twas  aye  to  be  seen; 

The  best  of  the  gossip  began 
When  in  at  the  doorway  had  entered  serene 

My  grandmother's  turkey-tail  fan. 

Tradition  relates  of  it  wonderful  tales. 

Its  handle  of  leather  was  buff. 
Though  shorn  of  its  glory,  e'en  now  it  exhales 

An  odor  of  hymn-books  and  snuff. 
Its  primeval  grace,  if  you  like,  you  can  trace: 

'Twas  limned  for  the  future  to  scan. 
Just  under  a  smiling  gold-spectacled  face, 

My  grandmother's  turkey-tail  fan. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 


VALENTINE 

IF  thou  canst  make  the  frost  be  gone, 
And  fleet  away  the  snow 
(And  that  thou  canst,  I  trow); 
If  thou  canst  make  the  spring  to  dawn, 
Hawthorn  to  put  her  brav'ry  on. 
Willow,  her  weeds  of  fine  green  lawn, 
Say  why  thou  dost  not  so^ — 
Aye,  aye! 
Say  why 
Thou  dost  not  so! 

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If  thou  canst  chase  the  stormy  rack, 

And  bid  the  soft  winds  blow 

(And  that  thou  canst,  I  trow); 
If  thou  canst  call  the  thrushes  back 
To  give  the  groves  the  songs  they  lack, 
And  wake  the  violet  in  thy  track, 

Say  why  thou  dost  not  so — 
Aye,  aye! 
Say  why 

Thou  dost  not  so! 

If  thou  canst  make  my  winter  spring, 
With  one  word  breathed  low 
(And  that  thou  canst,  I  know); 
If  in  the  closure  of  a  ring 
Thou  canst  to  me  such  treasure  bring, 
My  state  shall  be  above  a  king, 
Say  why  thou  dost  not  so — 
Aye,  aye! 
Say  why 
Thou  dost  not  so! 

Edith  Matilda  Thomas. 


A  VALENTINE 

OH!    little  loveliest  lady  mine. 
What  shall  I  send  for  your  valentine  ? 
Summer  and  flowers  are  far  away; 
Gloomy  old  Winter  is  king  to-day; 
Buds  will  not  blow,  and  sun  will  not  shine: 
What  shall  I  do  for  a  valentine  ? 

[251] 


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gy 


I've  searched  the  gardens  all  through  and  through 

For  a  bud  to  tell  of  my  love  so  true; 

But  buds  are  asleep,  and  blossoms  are  dead, 

And  the  snow^  beats  down  on  my  poor  little  head: 

So,  little  loveliest  lady  mine. 

Here  is  my  heart  for  your  valentine  ! 

Laura  Elizabeth  Richards. 


ON  A  HYMN-BOOK 

OLD  hymn-book,  sure  I  thought  I'd  lost  you 
In  the  days  now  long  gone  by; 
I'd  forgotten  where  I  tossed  you: 
Gracious!  how  I  sigh. 

In  the  church  a  thin  partition 

Stood  between  her  pew  and  mine; 

And  her  pious,  sweet  contrition 
Struck  me  as  divine. 

Yes,  remarkably  entrancing 

Was  she  in  her  sable  furs; 
And  my  eyes  were  always  glancing 

Up,  old  book,  to  hers. 

Bless  you,  very  well  she  knew  it, 

And  I'm  sure  she  liked  it  too; 
Once  she  whispered,  "Please  don't  do  it," 

But  her  eyes  said,  "Do." 

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How  to  speak — to  tell  my  passion  ? 

How  to  make  her  think  me  true  ? 
Love  soon  found  a  curious  fashion, 

For  he  spoke  through  you. 

How  I  used  to  search  your  pages 
For  the  words  I  wished  to  say; 

And  received  my  labour's  wages 
Every  Sabbath  day. 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  was  to  hand  her 

You,  with  lines  I'd  marked  when  found! 

And  how  well  I'd  understand  her 
When  she  blushed  and  frowned. 


And  one  day,  old  book,  you  wriggled 
From  my  hand  and,  rattling  fell 

Upon  the  floor;   and  she — she  giggled, 
Did  Miss  Isabel. 


Then  when  next  we  met  out  walking, 
I  was  told  in  fearful  tones, 

How  she'd  got  a  dreadful  talking 
From  the  Reverend  Jones. 

Ah  me!     No  man  could  resist  her 
In  those  sweet  and  buried  years, 

So  I  think — ^I  think  I  kissed  her, 
Just  to  stop  her  tears. 

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Jones  I  gave  a  good  sound  chaffing; 

Called  his  sermon  dry  as  bones; 
Soon  fair  Isabel  was  laughing — 

Said  she  hated  Jones. 

It  was  after  that  I  lost  you, 

For  I  needed  you  no  more; 
Somewhere — anywhere  I  tossed  you 

On  a  closet  floor. 


Reverend  Samuel  still  preaches; 

Isabel  her  past  atones; 
In  his  Sunday-school  she  teaches— 

Mrs.  Samuel  Jones. 

W.  J.  Henderson. 


THE  BALLADE  OF  THE  SUMMER- 
BOARDER 

Er  all  men  living  on  earth  take  heed, 
For  their  own  soul's  sake,  to  a  rhyme  well 
meant; 
Writ  so  that  he  who  runs  may  read — 
We  are  the  folk  that  a-summering  went, 
Who  while  the  year  w^as  young  were  bent — 
Yea,  bent  on  doing  this  self-same  thing 

Which  we  have  done  unto  some  extent. 
This  is  the  end  of  our  summering. 

[254] 


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We  are  the  folk  who  would  fain  be  freed 

From  wasteful  burdens  of  rate  and  rent — 
From  the  vampire  agents'  ravening  breed — 

We  are  the  folk  that  a-summering  went. 

We  hied  us  forth  when  the  summer  was  blent 
With  the  fresh  faint  sweetness  of  dying  spring, 

A-seeking  the  meadows  dew  besprent 
This  is  the  end  of  our  summering. 

For  O  the  waiters  that  must  be  fee'd, 

And    our    meat-time    neighbour,    the    travelling 
gent    ; 
And  the  youth  next  door  with  the  ophicleide! 

We  are  the  folk  that  a-summering  went! 

Who  from  small  bare  rooms  wherein  we  were 
pent. 
While  birds  their  way  to  the  southward  wing. 

Come  back,  our  money  for  no  good  spent — 
This  is  the  end  of  our  summering. 

ENVOY 

Citizens!    list  to  our  sore  lament — • 

While  the  landlord's  hands  to  our  raiment  cling — 
We  are  the  folk  that  a-summering  went: 

This  is  the  end  of  our  summering. 

H.   C.  Bunner. 


[255] 


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INTERESTING 

ROWED  her  out  on  the  broad  bright  sea, 
Till  the  land  lay  purple  upon  our  lee. 


The  heavens  were  trying  the  waves  to  outshine, 
With  never  a  cloud  to  the  far  sea-line. 

On  the  reefs  the  billows  in  kisses  broke — 
But  oh,  I  was  dying  for  one  small  smoke. 

She  spoke  of  the  gulls  and  the  waters  green — 
But  what  is  nature  to  Nicotine  ? 

She  spoke  of  the  tides,  and  the  Triton  myth; 
And  said  Jones  was  engaged  to  the  blonde  Miss 
Smith. 

She  spoke  of  her  liking  lemon  on  clams; 
And  Euclid,  and  parallelograms. 

For  her  face  was  fair  and  her  eyes  were  brown. 
And  she  was  a  girl  from  Boston  town. 

And  I  rowed  and  thought — but  I  never  said — 
"Does  Havana  tobacco  trouble  your  head?" 

She  talked  of  algae — she  talked  of  sand — 
And  I  thought:   "Tobacco  you  cannot  stand." 

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She  talked  of  the  ocean-steamer's  speed — 
And  I  yearned  for  a  whifF  of  the  wicked  weed. 

And  at  last  I  spoke,  between  fright  and  fret: 
"Would  you  mind  if  I  smoked  a  cigarette?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes  on  the  ocean's  blue, 
Ana  said:   "Would  you  mind  if  I  smoked  too?" 

H.  C.  Bn7iner. 


THE  WAY  TO  ARCADY 

OH,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady, 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady, 
Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry  ? 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 
The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through — 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  could  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  light. 
They  blow  an  old-time  way  for  me,   , 
Across  the  world  to  Arcady. 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 
Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat, 
Quit  mocking  of  the  song-bird's  note. 
How  have  you  heart  for  any  tune, 
You  with  the  wayworn  russet  shoon  ? 

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A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Your  scrip,  a-swinging  by  your  side, 
Gapes  with  a  gaunt  mouth  hungry-wide. 
I'll  brim  it  well  with  pieces  red, 
If  you  will  tell  the  way  to  tread. 

Oh,  I  am  bound  for  Arcady, 
And  if  you  but  keep  pace  with  me 
You  tread  the  way  to  Arcady. 

And  where  away  lies  Arcady, 

And  how  long  yet  may  the  journey  be  ? 

Ah,  that  (quoth  he)  I  do  not  know — 
Across  the  clover  and  the  snow — 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers — 
Through  summer  seconds  and  winter  hours. 
I've  trod  the  way  my  whole  life  long, 

And  know  not  now  where  it  may  be; 
My  guide  is  but  the  stir  to  song, 
That  tells  me  I  cannot  go  wrong. 

Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  be 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  cannot  sing  ? 

I  was  wont  to  sing,  once  on  a  time — 
There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance  back  to  the  trick  of  rhyme. 

'T  is  strange  you  cannot  sing  (quoth  he), 
The  folk  all  sing  in  Arcady. 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  nor  youth  nor  melody  ? 

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What,  know  you  not,  old  man  (quoth  he) — 
Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  wise — - 
That  Love  must  kiss  that  Mortal's  eyes 

Who  hopes  to  see  fair  Arcady  ? 

No  gold  can  buy  you  entrance  there; 

But  beggared  Love  may  go  all  bare — 

No  wisdom  won  with  weariness; 

But  Love  goes  in  with  Folly's  dress — 

No  fame  that  wit  could  ever  win; 

But  only  Love  may  lead  Love  in 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady. 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  through  all  my  days 

Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got, 
And  fame  and  name,  and  great  men's  praise, 

But  Love,  ah,  Love  !    I  have  it  not. 
There  was  a  time,  when  life  was  new — 

But  far  away,  and  half  forgot — • 
I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue; 

But  Love — I  fear  I  knew  it  not. 
We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold, 
And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 
All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me, 
Save  Love,  ah.  Love!   and  Arcady. 

Ah,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quoth  he), 
My  way's  for  Love  and  Arcady. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  like  me; 

The  gray  is  likewise  in  your  hair. 

What  dove  have  you  to  lead  you  there, 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady  ? 

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Ah,  no,  not  lonely  do  I  fare; 

My  true  companion's  Memory. 
With  Love  he  fills  the  Spring-time  air; 

With  Love  he  clothes  the  Winter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizon's  bound 

My  song  goes  straight  to  one  who  stands — 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  the  sound — 

To  lead  me  to  the  Spring-green  lands,' 
To  w^ander  with  enlacing  hands. 
The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir 
Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her. 
My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he), 
She  waits  for  me  in  Arcady. 

Oh,  yon's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  yon's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry. 

H.  C.  Bunner. 


DA  CAPO 

SHORT  and  sweet,  and  we've  come  to  the  end 
of  it— 
Our  poor  little  love  lying  cold. 
Shall  no  sonnet,  then,  ever  be  penned  of  it  ? 

Nor  the  joys  and  pains  of  it  told  ? 
How  fair  was  its  face  in  the  morning. 

How  close  its  caresses  at  noon, 
How  its  evening  grew  chill  without  warning, 
Unpleasantly  soon! 

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I  can't  say  just  how  we  began  it — ■ 

In  a  blush,  or  a  smile,  or  a  sigh; 
Fate  took  but  an  instant  to  plan  it; 

It  needs  but  a  moment  to  die. 
Yet — remember  that  first  conversation. 

When  the  flowers  you  had  dropped  at  your  feet 
I  restored.     The  familiar  quotation 

Was — "Sweets  to  the  sweet." 

Oh,  their  delicate  perfume  has  haunted 

My  senses  a  whole  season  through. 
If  there  was  one  soft  charm  that  you  wanted 

The  violets  lent  it  to  you. 
I  whispered  you,  life  was  but  lonely: 

A  cue  which  you  graciously  took; 
And  your  eyes  learned  a  look  for  me  only — 
A  very  nice  look. 

And  sometimes  your  hand  would  touch  my  hand, 

With  a  sweetly  particular  touch; 
You  said  many  things  in  a  sigh,  and 

Made  a  look  exprc-ss  wo'"i;uously  much. 
We  smiled  for  the  mere  sake  of  smiling, 

And  laughed  for  no  reason  but  fun; 
Irrational  joys;    but  beguiling — 

And  all  that  is  done! 

We  were  idle,  and  played  for  a  moment 
At  a  game  that  now  neither  will  press: 

I  cared  not  to  find  out  what  "No"  meant; 
Nor  your  lips  to  grow  yielding  with  "Yes." 

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Love  is  done  with  and  dead;    if  there  lingers 

A  faint  and  indefinite  ghost, 
It  is  laid  with  this  kiss  on  your  fingers — 

A  jest  at  the  most. 

'Tis  a  commonplace,  stale  situation, 

Now  the  curtain  comes  down  from  above 
On  the  end  of  our  little  flirtation — 

A  travesty  romance  for  Love, 
If  he  climbed  in  disguise  to  your  lattice, 

Fell  dead  of  the  first  kisses'  pain: 
But  one  thing  is  left  us  now;   that  is — ■ 

Begin  it  again. 

H.  C.  Biinner. 


THE  MAID  OF  MURRAY  HILL 

SAINT  Valentine,  Saint  Valentine  ! 
I  love  a  maid  of  New  York  town, 
And  every  day,  on  my  homeward  way. 
She  walks  the  Avenue  down. 
At  five  o'clock,  dear  Saint,  she  goes 

Tripping  down  Murray  Hill, 
And  the  hands  of  the  clock  in  the  old  brick  spire 
Stand  still,  stand  still,  stand  still ! 

Saint  Valentine,  Saint  Valentine  ! 

Oh,  could  3'ou  know  how  fair  a  maid — • 
So  trim  of  dress,  and  so  gold  of  tress, 

You'd  know  why  I'm  afraid. 

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I  see  her  pass,  I  smile  and  bow, 

As  I  go  up  Muiray  Hill, 
And  I  say  to  a  foolish  hope  of  mine: 

Be  still,  be  still,  be  still  1 

Saint  Valentine,  Saint  Valentine, 

Oh,  could  you  see  how  close  her  gown 
Binds  tight  and  warm  about  her  form. 

This  maid  of  New  York  town. 
You'd  know  a  mountain  would  to  me 

Be  less  than  Murray  Hill, 
If  only  around  her  my  arm  could  slip, 

And  she'd  stand  still,  stand  still. 

Saint  Valentine,  Saint  Valentine! 

She  is  so  fair,  so  rich,  so  great, 
I  have  no  right  to  think  what  might 

Be  this  poor  clerk's  estate. 
And  yet  the  bells  in  yon  brick  spire, 

As  we  pass  on  Murray  Hill, 
They  ring,  they  ring — she's  not  for  me — 

And  still — and  still — and  still — 

H.  C.  Bunner. 


[263] 


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KITTY'S  SUMMERING 

HAVE  you  seen  e'er  a  sign  of  my  Kitty  ? 
Have  you  seen  a  fair  maiden  go  by 
Who  was  wed  in  this  summer-struck  city 
About  the  first  week  in  July  ? 
How  fair  was  her  face  there's  no  telHng; 

She  was  well-nigh  as  wealthy  as  fair, 
And  of  marble  and  brick  was  her  dwelling 
On  the  North  side  of  Washington  Square. 

Have  you  seen  her  at  Newport  a-driving  ? 

Have  you  seen  her  a-flirt  at  the  pier  ? 
Is  she  written  among  the  arriving 

At  the  Shoals  or  the  Hamptons  this  year  ? 
Or  out  where  the  ocean  bird  flutters 

Are  the  sea-breezes  tossing  her  hair  ? 
For  closed  are  the  ancient  green  shutters 

In  the  house  on  North  Washington  Square. 

So  you,  too,  are  trying  to  find  her  ? 

Then  climb  up  these  stairways  with  me, 
That  twist  and  grow  blinder  and  blinder, 

Till  the  skylight  near  heaven  you  see. 
Is  the  sun  my  dull  studio  gilding  ? 

Ah,  no,  it  is  Kitty  sits  there — 
She  has  moved  to  the  Studio  Building 

On  the  South  side  of  Washington  Square. 

H.  C.  Bunner. 


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FORFEITS 

THEY  sent  him  round  the  circle  fair, 
To  bow  before  the  prettiest  there. 
I'm  bound  to  say  the  choice  he  made 
A  creditable  taste  displayed; 
Although — I  can't  say  what  it  meant — 
The  little  maid  looked  ill-content. 

His  task  was  then  anew  begun — 
To  kneel  before 'the  wittiest  one. 
Once  more  that  little  maid  sought  he, 
And  went  him  down  upon  his  knee. 
She  bent  her  eyes  upon  the  floor — 
I  think  she  thought  the  game  a  bore. 

He  circled  then — his  sweet  behest 
To  kiss  the  one  he  loved  the  best. 
For  all  she  frowned,  for  all  she  chid, 
He  kissed  that  little  maid,  he  did. 
And  then — though  why  I  can't  decide — 
The  little  maid  looked  satisfied. 

H.  C.  Bunner. 


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WHEN  WILL  LOVE  COME? 

SOME  find  Love  late,  some  find  him  soon, 
Some  with  the  rose  in  May, 
Some  with  the  nightingale  in  June, 
And  some  when  skies  are  grey; 
Love  comes  to  some  with  smiling  eves, 

And  comes  with  tears  to  some; 
For  some  Love  sings,  for  some  Love  sighs, 

For  some  Love's  lips  are  dumb. 
How  will  you  come  to  me,  fair  Love  ? 

Will  you  come  late  or  soon  ? 
With  sad  or  smiling  skies  above. 

By  light  of  sun  or  moon  ? 
Will  you  be  sad,  will  you  be  sweet, 

Sing,  sigh.  Love,  or  be  dumb  ? 
Will  it  be  summer  when  we  meet, 
Or  autumn  ere  you  come  ? 

Pakenham  Beatty. 

HELIOTROPE 

AMID  the  Chapel's  chequered  gloom 
h\  She  laughed  with  Dora  and  with  Flora 

And  chattered  in  the  lecture-room — 
That  saucy  little  sophomora! 
Yet  while,  as  in  her  other  schools, 

She  was  a  privileged  transgressor. 
She  never  broke  the  simple  rules 
Of  one  particular  professor. 
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'gy 


But  when  he  spoke  of  varied  lore, 

Paroxytones  and  modes  potential, 
She  Hstened  with  a  face  that  wore 

A  look  half  fond,  half  reverential. 
To  her,  that  earnest  voice  was  sweet. 

And,  though  her  love  had  no  confessor, 
Her  girlish  heart  lay  at  the  feet 

Of  that  particular  professor. 

And  he  had  learned,  among  his  books 

That  held  the  lore  of  aces  olden. 
To  watch  those  ever-changing  looks. 

The  wistful  eyes,  the  tresses  golden, 
That  stirred  his  pulse  with  passion's  pain 

And  thrilled  his  soul  with  soft  desire, 
And  bade  fond  youth  return  again, 

Crowned  with  its  coronet  of  fire. 

Her  sunny  smile,  her  winsome  ways. 

Were  more  to  him  than  all  his  knowledge, 
And  she  preferred  his  words  of  praise 

To  all  the  honours  of  the  college. 
Yet  "What  am  foolish  I  to  him  ?" 

She  whispered  to  her  heart's  confessor. 
"She  thinks  me  old  and  grey  and  grim," 

In  silence  pondered  the  professor. 

Yet  once  when  Christmas  bells  were  rung 
Above  ten  thousand  solemn  churches. 

And  swelling  anthems  grandly  sung 

Pealed  through  the  dim  cathedral  arches; 
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Ere  home  returning,  filled  with  hope, 
Softly  she  stole  by  gate  and  gable, 

And  a  sweet  spray  of  heliotrope 
Left  on  his  littered  study  table. 

Nor  came  she  more  from  day  to  day 

Like  sunshine  through  the  shadows  rifting: 
Above  her  grave,  far,  far  away. 

The  ever  silent  snows  were  drifting; 
And  those  who  mourned  her  winsome  face 

Found  in  its  stead  a  sweet  successor 
And  loved  another  in  her  place — 

All,  save  the  silent  old  professor. 

But,  in  the  tender  twilight  grey, 

Shut  from  the  sight  of  carping  critic. 
His  lonely  thoughts  would  often  stray 

From  Vedic  verse  and  tongues  Semitic, 
Bidding  the  ghost  of  vanished  hope 

Mock  with  its  past  the  sad  possessor 
Of  the  dead  spray  of  heliotrope 

That  once  she  gave  the  old  professor. 

Harry  Thurston  Peck. 


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BORDERLAND 

AND  have  you  been  to  Borderland  ? 
Its  country  lies  on  either  hand 
Beyond  the  river  I-forget. 
One  crosses  by  a  single  stone 
So  narrow  one  must  pass  alone, 
And  all  about  its  waters  fret — 
The  laughing  river  I-forget. 

Beneath  the  trees  of  Borderland 

One  seems  to  know  and  understand. 
Beside  the  river  I-forget, 

All  languages  of  men  and  birds; 

And  all  the  sweet,  unspoken  words 
One  ever  missed  are  murmured  yet 
By  that  sweet  river  I-forget. 

One  hears  there  many  things  afar 
From  cities  where  strange  peoples  are, 

Beyond  the  river  I-forget; 
And  stranger  things  are  in  the  air. 
But  what  they  are  one  does  not  care. 

For  Hope  lies  sleeping  and  Regret 

Beside  the  river  I-for^et. 

Some  day  together  hand  in  hand 
I'll  take  you  there  to  Borderland, 
Beyond  the  river  I-forget; 
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A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Some  day  when  all  our  dieams  come  true, 
One  kiss  for  me  and  one  for  you, 

We'll  watch  the  red  sun  sink  and  set 

Across  the  river  I-forget. 

Herman  Knickerbocker  Viele. 


EPITHALAMIUM 

THE  marriage  bells  have  rung  their  peal, 
The  wedding  march  has  told  its  story. 
I've  seen  her  at  the  altar  kneel 
In  all  her  stainless,  virgin  glory; 
She's  bound  to  honor,  love,  obey. 

Come  joy  or  sorrow,  tears  or  laughter. 
I  watched  her  as  she  rode  aw^ay. 
And  flung  the  lucky  slipper  after. 

She  was  my  first,  my  very  first. 

My  earliest  inamorata. 
And  to  the  passion  that  I  nursed 

For  her  I  well  nigh  was  a  martyr. 
For  I  was  young,  and  she  was  fair. 

And  always  gay  and  bright  and  chipper, 
And,  oh,  she  wore  such  sunlit  hair. 

Such  silken  stockings!    such  a  slipper! 

She  did  not  wish  to  make  me  mourn — • 
She  was  the  kindest  of  God's  creatures; 

But  flirting  was  in  her  inborn, 

Like  brains  and  queerness  in  the  Beechers. 

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I  do  not  fear  your  heartless  flirt — 

Obtuse  her  dart  and  dull  her  probe  is; 

But  when  girls  do  not  mean  to  hurt, 
But  do — Orate  tunc  pro  nobis! 

A  most  romantic  country  place; 

The  moon  at  full,  the  month  of  August; 
An  inland  lake  across  whose  face 

Played  gentle  zephyrs,  ne'er  a  raw  gust. 
Books,  boats,  and  horses  to  enjoy, 

The  which  was  all  our  occupation; 
A  damsel  and  a  callow  boy — 

There  !   now  you  have  the  situation. 

We  rode  together  miles  and  miles. 

My  pupil  she,  and  I  her  Chiron; 
At  home  I  reveled  in  her  smiles 

And  read  her  extracts  out  of  Byron. 
We  roamed  by  moonlight,  chose  our  stars 

(I  thought  it  most  authentic  billing). 
Explored  the  woods,  climbed  over  bars. 

Smoked  cigarettes  and  broke  a  shilling. 

An  infinitely  blissful  week 

Went  by  in  this  Arcadian  fashion; 
I  hesitated  long  to  speak. 

But  ultimately  breathed  my  passion. 
She  said  her  heart  was  not  her  own; 

She  said  she'd  love  me  like  a  sister; 
She  cried  a  little  (not  alone); 

I  begged  her  not  to  fret,  and — kissed  her. 

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I  lost  some  sleep,  some  pounds  in  weight, 

A  deal  of  time,  and  all  my  spirits. 
And  much — how  much  I  dare  not  state — 

I  mused  upon  that  damsel's  merits. 
I  tortured  my  unhappy  soul, 

I  wished  I  never  might  recover; 
I  hoped  her  marriage  bells  might  toll 

A  requiem  for  her  faithful  lover. 

And  now  she's  married,  now  she  wears 

A  wedding-ring  upon  her  finger; 
And  I — although  it  odd  appears — 

Still  in  the  flesh  I  seem  to  linger. 
Lo,  there  my  swallow-tail,  and  here 

Lies  by  my  side  a  wedding  favor; 
Beside  it  stands  a  mug  of  beer, 

I  taste  it — how  divine  its  flavor! 

I  saw  her  in  her  bridal  dress 

Stand  pure  and  lovely  at  the  altar; 
I  heard  her  firm  response — that  "Yes," 

Without  a  quiver  or  a  falter. 
And  here  I  sit  and  drink  to  her 

Long  life  and  happiness,  God  bless  her! 
Now  fill  again.     No  heel-taps,  sir; 

Here's  to — Success  to  her  successor! 

E.  S.  Martin. 


[  272  ] 


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INFIRM 

I  WILL  not  go,"  he  said,  "for  well 
I  know  her  eyes'  insidious  spell, 
And  how  unspeakably  he  feels 
Who  takes  no  pleasure  in  his  meals. 
I  know  a  one-idea'd  man 
Should  undergo  the  social  ban. 
And  if  she  once  my  purpose  melts 
I  know  I'll  think  of  nothing  else. 

"I  care  not  though  her  teeth  are  pearls — 
The  town  is  full  of  nicer  girls! 
I  care  not  though  her  lips  are  red — ■ 
It  does  not  do  to  lose  one's  head! 
I'll  give  her  leisure  to  discover, 
For  once,  how  little  I  think  of  her; 
And  then,  how  will  she  feel  ?"  cried  he — • 
And  took  his  hat  and  went  to  see. 

E.  S.  Martin. 


WORDS,  WORDS,  WORDS 

I   LOVED  a  maid  (oh,  she  was  fair  of  face!) 
But  common  words  above 
Was  my  true  love — 
So  I  was  silent  for  a  little  space — 
Yet,  'gainst  the  day  I  meant  that  she  should  hear 

me, 
I  sought  for  stately  words  that  might  endear  me. 

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My  ardent  lips,  I  vowed,  should  not  repeat 

What  countless  lovers  sv^ear: — 

"Oh,  thou  art  fair!" 
I  scorned  to  merely  say,  "I  love  thee.  Sweet!" 
So  spent  long  days  with  rhetoric  and  tutor, 
In  framing  sentences  I  dreamed  might  suit  her. 

Oh,  how  I  pondered  what  she  best  might  hear! 

Words  should  like  jewels  shine 

To  make  her  mine — 
No  commonplaces  must  offend  her  ear: 
But  while  for  proper  words  my  passion  tarried 
I  learned  the  maiden  some  one  else  had  married! 

Margarets  D  eland. 


THE  BLUEBELL 

IN  love  she  fell. 
My  shy  Bluebell, 

With  a  strolling  Bumblebee; 
"I  love  you  so," 
He  whispered  low, 

"Sweet,  give  your  heart  to  me!" 

'I  love  but  you, 
And  I'll  be  true. 

Oh,  give  me  your  heart,  I  pray?" 
She  bent  her  head, — 
"I  will,"  she  said; 

When,  lo,  he  flew^  away! 

Margaret  Deland. 

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A  MODERN  MARTYRDOM 

THE  Wevei-wend  Awthur  Mui-way  Gween, 
They  say  is  verwy  clevah; 
And  sister  Wuth  could  heah  him  pweach, 
Fohevah  and  fohevah. 
And  I  went  down  to  heah  him  pweach, 

With  Wuth  and  my  Annette, 
Upon  the  bwave,  hewoic  deaths 

The  ancient  mawtahs  met; 
And  as  he  wepwesented  them, 

In  all  their  acts  and  feachaws, 
The  ancient  mawtahs,  dontcherknow  ? 
Were  doocid  clevah  cweachaws. 

But,  aw  deah  me!     They  don't  compah 

In  twue  hewoic  bwavewy, 
To  a  bwave  hewo  fwiend  of  mine. 

Young  Montmowenci  Averwy. 
He  earned  foah  dollahs  everwy  week, 

And  not  anothah  coppah; 
But  this  bwave  soul  wesolved  to  dwess 

Pwe-eminently  pwoppah. 
So  this  was  all  the  food  each  day, 

The  bwave  young  cweachaw  had — • 
One  glaws  of  milk,  a  cigawette, 

Foah  cwackers,  and  some  bwead. 

He  lived  on  foahteen  cents  a  day, 
And  cherwished  one  great  passion: 

The  pwecious  pwoject  of  his  soul, 
Of  being  dwessed  in  fashion. 

[275] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

But  when  he'd  earned  a  suit  entiah, 

To  his  supweme  chagwin, 
Just  then  did  shawt-tailed  coats  go  out, 

And  long-tailed  coats  come  in; 
But  naught  could  bweak  his  wigid  will 

And  now,  I  pway  you,  note. 
That  he  gave  up  his  glaws  of  milk 

And  bought  a  long-tailed  coat. 


But  then  the  fashion  changed  once  moah, 

And  bwought  a  gwievous  plight; 
It  changed  from  twousers  that  are  loose 

To  twousers  that  are  tight. 
Then  his  foah  cwackers  he  gave  up, 

He  just  wenounced  their  use; 
And  changed  to  twousers  that  are  tight 

From  twousers  that  are  loose. 
And  then  the  narrow-toed  style  shoes 

To  bwoad-toed  changed  instead; 
Then  he  pwocured  a  bwoad-toed  paih, 

And  gave  up  eating  bwead. 


Just  then  the  bwoad-bwimmed  style  of  hat 

To  narrow  bwims  gave  way; 
And  so  his  twibulations  gwew, 

Incweasing  everwy  day. 
But  he  pwocured  a  narrow  bwim. 

Of  verwy  stylish  set; 
But  bwave,  bwave  soul!    he  had  to  dwop 

His  pwecious  cigawette. 
[276] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


But  now  when  his  whole  suit  confohmed 

To  fashion's  wegulation 
For  lack  of  cwackers,  milk,  and  bwead, 

He  perwished  of  stahvation. 

Thus  in  his  owah  of  victowry, 

He  passed  on  to  his  west — 
I  weally  nevah  saw  a  cawpse 

So  fashionably  dwessed. 
My  teahs  above  his  well-dwessed  clay 

Fell  like  the  spwingtime  wains; 
My  eyes  had  nevah  wested  on 

Such  pwoppah  dwessed  wemains. 
The  ancient  mawtahs — they  were  gwand 

And  glowious  in  their  day; 
But  this  bwave  Montmowenci  was 

As  gweat  and  gwand  as  they. 

Sam  JValter  Foss. 


A  CORSAGE  BOUQUET 

MYRTILLA,  to-night, 
Wears  Jacqueminot  roses, 
She's  the  loveliest  sight! 
Myrtilla  to-night: — 
Correspondingly  light 

My  pocket-book  closes. 
Myrtilla,  to-night 

Wears  Jacqueminot  roses. 

Charles  -Henry  Luders. 

[277  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CASSANDRA  BROWN 

THOUGH  I  met  her  in  the  summer,  when  one's 
heart  hes  'round  at  ease 
As  It  were  in  tennis  costume,  and  a  man's 
not  hard  to  please; 
Yet  I  think  at  any  season  to  have  met  her  was  to 

love, 
While   her   tones,   unspoiled,    unstudied,   had   the 
softness  of  the  dove. 

At  request  she  read  us  poems,  in  a  nook  among 
the  pines. 

And  her  artless  voice  lent  music  to  the  least  melo- 
dious lines; 

Though  she  lowered  her  shadowing  lashes,  in  an 
earnest  reader's  wise, 

Yet  we  caught  blue  gracious  glimpses  of  the 
heavens  that  were  her  eyes. 

As  in  Paradise  I  listened.     Ah,  I  did  not  understand 
That   a   little   cloud,   no  larger  than  the   average 

human  hand. 
Might,  as  stated  oft  in  fiction,  spread  into  a  sable 

pall, 
When  she  said  that  she  should  study  elocution  in 

the  fall. 

I  admit  her  earliest  efforts  were  not  in  the  Ercles 

vein: 
She  began  with  "Lit-tle  Maaybel,  with  her  faayce 

against  the  paayne, 

[278] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

And  the  beacon-light  a-tirremble — "  which,  al- 
though it  made  me  wince, 

Is  a  thing  of  cheerful  nature  to  the  things  she's 
rendered  since. 


Having  learned  the  Soulful  Quiver,  she  acquired 
the  Melting  Mo-o-an, 

And  the  way  she  gave  "Young  Grayhead"  would 
have  liquefied  a  stone; 

Then  the  Sanguinary  Tragic  did  her  energies  em- 
ploy. 

And  she  tore  my  taste  to  tatters  when  she  slew 
"The  Polish  Boy." 

It's  not  pleasant  for  a  fellow  when  the  jewel  of  his 

soul 
Wades  through  slaughter  on  the  carpet,  while  her 

orbs  in  frenzy  roll: 
What  was  I  that  I  should  murmur  ?     Yet  it  gave 

me  grievous  pain, 
When  she  rose  in  social  gatherings  and  "searched 

among  the  slain." 

I  was  forced  to  look  upon  her,  in  my  desperation 

dumb — 
Knowing  well  that  when  her  awful  opportunity  was 

^  come 
She  would  give  us  battle,  murder,  sudden  death  at 

very  least — 
As  a  skeleton  of  warning,  and  a  blight  upon  the 

feast. 

[  279  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Once,  ah!  once  I  fell  a-dreaming;  some  one  played 

a  polonaise 
I   associated  strongly  with  those  happier  August 

days; 
And   I   mused,  "I'll  speak  this  evening,"   recent 

pangs  forgotten  quite. 
Sudden   shrilled   a   scream   of  anguish:    "Curfew 

SHALL  not  ring  to-night!" 

Ah,  that  sound  was  as  a  curfew,  quenching  rosy 

warm  romance! 
Were  it  safe  to  wed  a  woman  one  so  oft  would 

wish  in  France  ? 
Oh,   as   she  "cull-imbed"  that  ladder,   swift  my 

mounting  hope  came  down. 
I  am  still  a  single  cynic;    she  is  still  Cassandra 

Brown! 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 


FROM  THREE  FLY  LEAVES 

AH  Phyllis!    did  I  only  dare 
/A      To  hope  that,  as  the  years,  go  by, 
And  you,  a  maid  divinely  fair, 
The  cynosure  of  every  eye. 
Have  fixed  the  wandering  minds  of  men, 
And  found  a  fare  for  scores  of  hearses, 
You  still  will  open,  now  and  then. 
My  little  book  of  verses; 
[  280  ] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Or  did  I,  bolder  yet,  aspire 

To  hope  that  any  phrase  of  mine, 
Aglow  with  memory's  cheering  fire 

Will  burn  within  that  heart  of  thine; 
Although  my  brow  be  bare  of  bays, 

My  coffers  not  replete  with  gain, 
I  shall  not — what's  the  foolish  phrase  ? — 

Have  written  quite  in  vain. 

y.  K.  Stephen. 


QUESTION  AND  ANSWER 

THE    QUESTION 

THE  river  is  flowing. 
The  stars  coming  forth: 
Great  ruddy  clouds  going 
From  westward  to  north. 

The  rushes  are  waving. 
The  water's  still  blue: 

And  I  am  behaving 
Decorously  too: 

The  amorous  zephyr 

Breathes  soft  in  our  ear: 

Who  hears  not  is  deafer 
Than  adders,  my  dear: 
[281  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

Ah!   list  to  the  whisper 

Of  waters  and  sky! 
Thames,  vagabond  lisper 

Grows  subtle  and  sly. 

How  trebly  delicious 

The  air-draughts  we  quaff: 
The  hour  is  propitious: — 

Oh  1  .  .  .  why  do  you  laugh  ? 

THE    ANSWER 

Ask  the  sky  why  it  flushes, 

The  clouds  why  they  glow: 
The  weir  why  it  gushes, 

The  reeds  why  they  grow: 

The  moon  why  it  rises. 

The  sun  why  it  sets: 
Her  why  she  surprises, 

Him  why  he  forgets: 

The  star  why  it  twinkles, 

The  west  why  it  shines: 
The  brow  why  it  wrinkles. 

The  heart  why  it  pines: 

Mankind  why  they  blunder, 
The  corn  why  there's  chaflF: 

Ask  yourself  why  you  wonder — ■ 
Not  me  why  I  laugh! 

y.  K.  Stephen. 

[  282  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A 72thology 


A  RHYME  FOR  PRISCILLA 

DEAR  Priscilla,  quaint  and  very 
Like  a  modern  Puritan, 
Is  a  modest,  literary, 

Merry  young  American: 
Horace  she  has  read,  and  Bion 

Is  her  favorite  in  Greek; 
Shakespeare  is  a  mighty  Hon 

In  whose  den  she  dares  but  peek; 
Him  she  leaves  to  some  sage  Daniel, 

Since  of  lions  she's  afraid, — - 
She  prefers  a  playful  spaniel, 

Such  as  Herrick  or  as  Praed; 
And  it's  not  a  bit  satiric 

To  confess  her  fancy  goes 
From  the  epic  to  a  lyric 

On  a  rose. 

Wise  Priscilla,  dilettante. 

With  a  sentimental  mind. 
Doesn't  deign  to  dip  in  Dante 

And  to  Milton  isn't  kind; 
L'Allegro,  II  Penseroso 

Have  some  merits  she  will  grant, 
All  the  rest  is  only  so-so, — 

Enter  Paradise  she  can't! 
She  might  make  a  charming  angel 

(And  she  will  if  she  is  good), 

[283] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

But  it's  doubtful  if  the  change'll 
Make  the  Epic  understood: 

Honey-suckling,  like  a  bee  she 
Goes  and  pillages  his  sweets, 

And  it's  plain  enough  to  see  she 
Worships  Keats. 

Gay  Priscilla, — ^just  the  person 

For  the  Locker  whom  she  loves; 
What  a  captivating  verse  on 

Her  neat-fitting  gowns  or  gloves 
He  could  write  in  catching  measure. 

Setting  all  the  heart  astir ! 
And  to  Aldrich  what  a  pleasure 

It  would  be  to  sing  of  her, — 
He,  whose  perfect  songs  have  won  her 

Lips  to  quote  them  day  by  day. 
She  repeats  the  rhymes  of  Bunner 

In  a  fascinating  way. 
And  you'll  often  find  her  lost  in — 

She  has  reveries  at  times — 
Some  delightful  one  of  Austin 

Dobson's  rhymes. 

O  Priscilla,  sweet  Priscilla, 

Writing  of  you  makes  me  think, 
As  I  burn  my  brown  Manila 

And  immortalize  my  ink. 
How  well  satisfied  these  poets 

Ought  to  be  with  what  they  do 
When,  especially,  they  know  it's   . 

Read  by  such  a  girl  as  you: 
[284] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

I  who  sing  of  you  would  marry 

Just  the  kind  of  girl  you  are, — 
One  who  doesn't  care  to  carry 

Her  poetic  taste  too  far, — • 
One  whose  fancy  is  a  bright  one, 

Who  is  fond  of  poems  fine. 
And  appreciates  a  light  one 

Such  as  mine. 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 


THE  OLD  COLLECTOR 

"T^IS  strange  to  look  across  the  street 
I        And  feel  that  we  no  more  shall  greet 
Our  middle-aged,  precise,  and  neat, 
Old-fashioned  neighbor. 
It  seems,  in  his  unlighted  hall. 
His  much-prized  pictures  on  the  wall 
Must  miss  his  presence,  and  recall 
His  loving  labor. 

His  manner  was  serene  and  fine, 
Fashioned  on  some  Old-World  design. 
His  wit  grew  keener  with  the  wine, 

And  kindlier  after; 
And  when  the  revelry  rang  high, 
No  one  could  make  more  apt  reply; 
Yet,  though  they  sometimes  marked  his  sigh, 

None  heard  his  laughter. 

[  2S5  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

He  held  as  foolish  him  who  dotes 

On  politics  or  petticoats; 

He  vowed  he'd  hear  no  talk  of  votes 

Or  silly  scandals. 
No  journeys  tempted  him;    he  swore 
He  held  his  world  within  his  door, 
And  there  he'd  dwell  till  life  was  o'er. 

Secure  from  vandals. 

"Why  should  I  roam  the  world  again  ?" 
He  said.     "Domingo  shows  me  Spain; 
The  dust  of  travel  then  were  vain. 

What  springtime  chances 
To  match  my  Corot  there!     One  glance 
Is  worth  a  year  of  actual  France. 
The  real  ne'er  equals  the  romance, 

Nor  fact  our  fancies." 

His  walls  were  decked  with  maidens  fair — 
A  Henner  with  rich  auburn  hair; 
A  Reynolds  with  the  stately  air 

That  fits  a  beauty; 
There  glanced  a  Greuze  with  girlish  grace; 
And  yonder,  with  the  strong,  calm  face, 
The  peasant  sister  of  her  race. 

Whose  life  is  duty. 

He  valued  most  the  sunny  day 
Because  it  lighted  his  Dupre, 
And  showed  his  small  Meissonier 
In  proper  fashion. 
[  2S6  ] 


A   Vers  de  Soctete  Anthology 

And  tender  was  the  glance  he  bent 
Upon  his  missal's  ornament, 
Whereon  some  patient  monk  had  spent 
His  artist  passion. 

I  used  to  love  to  see  him  pass 

His  fingers  o'er  some  rare  old  glass. 

He  never  took  delight  en  masse; 

He  loved  each  treasure: 
The  precious  bronzes  from  Japan, 
The  rugs  from  towered  Ispahan, 
His  rose-tint  Sevres,  his  famous  fan — 

Each  had  its  pleasure. 

And  so  he  held  that  Art  was  all; 

Yet  when  Death  made  the  solemn  call, 

Before  the  desk  in  his  long  hall 

They  found  him  sitting. 
Within  the  hands  clasped  on  his  breast 
An  old  daguerreotype  was  pressed — 
A  sweet-faced,  smiling  girl,  and  dressed 

In  frills  befitting. 


't>* 


Naught  of  his  story  can  we  know, 
Nor  whose  the  fault  so  long  ago. 
Nor  with  what  meed  of  weal  or  woe 

His  love  was  blended. 
Yet  o'er  his  rare  Delft  mantel-tiles 
Bellini's  sweet  Madonna  smiles 
As  though  she  knew  the  weary  miles 

For  him  are  ended. 

Beatrice  Hanscom. 
[287] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


THE  LAST  DITCH 

EVE,  through  your  varied  views  on  Art 
Untiring  have  I  followed  you, 
Content  to  know  I  had  your  heart 
And  was  your  Art-ideal,  too. 

As,  dear,  I  was  when  first  we  met. 

('Twas  at  the  time  you  worshipped  Leighton, 
And  were  attempting  to  forget 

Your  Foster  and  your  Noel  Paton.) 

"Love  rhymes  with  Art,"  said  your  dear  voice, 
And,  at  my  crude,  uncultured  age, 

I  could  but  blushingly  rejoice 

That  you  had  passed  the  Rubens  stage. 

When  Madox  Brown  and  Morris  swayed 
Your  taste,  did  I  not  dress  and  look 

Like  any  Middle  Ages  maid 
In  an  illuminated  book  ? 

I  wore  strange  garments,  without  shame, 
Of  formless  form  and  toneless  tones, 

I  might  have  stepped  out  of  the  frame 
Of  a  Rossetti  or  Burne-Jones. 

I  stole  soft  frills  from  Marcus  Stone, 
My  waist  wore  Herkomer's  disguise. 

My  slender  purse  was  strained,  I  own, 
But — my  silk  lay  as  Sargent's  lies. 
[  288  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

And  when  you  were  abroad — in  Prague — 
'Mid  Cherets  I  had  shone,  a  star; 

Then  for  your  sake  I  grew  as  vague 
As  Mr.  Whistler's  ladies  are. 

But  now  at  last  you  sue  in  vain, 

For  here  a  life's  submission  ends: 
Not  even  for  you  will  I  grow  plain 

As  Aubrey  Beardsley's  "lady  friends." 

Here  I  renounce  your  hand — unless 
You  find  your  Art-ideal  elsewhere; 

I  will  not  wear  the  kind  of  dress 

That  Laurence  Housman's  people  wear! 

E.  Nesbit. 


BE  YE  IN  LOVE  WITH  APRIL-TIDE 

BE  ye  in  love  with  April-tide  .? 
r  faith,  in  love  am  I! 
For  now  'tis  sun,  and  now  'tis  shower, 
And  now  'tis  frost,  and  now  'tis  flower, 
And  now  'tis  Laura  laughing-eyed. 
And  now  'tis  Laura  shy! 

Ye  doubtful  days,  O  slower  glide! 
Still  smile  and  frown,  O  skv! 
Some  beauty  unforeseen  I  trace 
In  every  change  of  Laura's  face; — 
Be  ye  in  love  with  April-tide  ? 
r  faith,  in  love  am  I! 

Clinton  Scollai-d. 

[  289  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


STRAWBERRIES 

AGAIN  the  year  is  at  the  prime 
/A        With  flush  of  rose  and  cuckoo-croon; 
Care  doffs  his  wrinkled  air,  and  Time 
Foots  to  a  gamesome  tune. 

So,  ho,  my  lads,  an'  if  you  will 
But  follow  underneath  the  hill. 

It's  strawberries  !    strawberries! 
You  shall  feast,  and  have  your  fill! 

The  elder  clusters  promise  wine 

Where  dips  the  path  along  the  lane; 
The  early  lowing  of  the  kine 
Floats  in  a  far  refrain; 

You  will  forget  to  dream  indeed 

Of  fruit  that  Georgian  loam-lands  breed 

In  strawberries'    strawberries! 
That  wait  for  us  in  Martin's  mead. 

Then  haste,  before  the  sun  be  high, 

And,  haply,  catch  the  morning  star; 
For,  ere  the  cups  of  dew  be  dry, 
The  berries  sweetest  are. 

And  if,  perchance,  a  rustic  lass 
In  merriment  a-milking  pass. 

It's  strawberries!    strawberries! 
On  her  lips  as  in  the  grass. 

Clinton  Scollard. 

[  290] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A Jithology 


APPLIED  ASTRONOMY 

HE  took  me  out  to  see  the  stars, 
That  astronomic  bore; 
He  said  there  were  two  moons  near  Mars, 
While  Jupiter  had  four. 

I  thought  of  course  he'd  whisper  soon 

What  fourfold  bliss  'twould  be 
To  stroll  beneath  that  fourfold  moon 

On  Jupiter  with  me. 

And  when  he  spoke  of  Saturn's  ring, 

I  was  convinced  he'd  say 
That  was  the  very  kind  of  thing 

To  offer  me  some  day. 

But  in  a  tangent  off  he  went 

To  double  stars.     Now  that 
Was  most  suggestive,  so  content 

And  quite  absorbed  I  sat. 

But  no,  he  talked  a  dreary  mess. 

Of  which  the  only  fraction 
That  caught  my  fancy,  I  confess, 

Was  "mutual  attraction." 

I  said  I  thought  it  very  queer 

And  stupid  altogether, 
For  stars  to  keep  so  very  near. 

And  yet  not  come  together. 

[  291  ] 


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At  that  he  smiled,  and  turned  his  head; 

I  thought  he'd  caught  the  notion. 
He  merely  bowed  good-night  and  said, 

Their  safety  lay  in  motion. 

Esther  B.  Tiffany. 


COURTSHIP 

IT  chanced,  they  say,  upon  a  day, 
A  furlong  from  the  town. 
That  she  was  strolling  up  the  way 
As  he  was  strolling  down — 
She  humming  low,  as  might  be  so, 

A  ditty  sweet  and  small; 
He  whistling  loud  a  tune,  you  know. 
That  had  no  tune  at  all. 

It  happened  so — precisely  so — 

As  all  their  friends  and  neighbours  know. 

As  I  and  you  perhaps  might  do, 

They  gazed  upon  the  ground; 
But  when  they'd  gone  a  yard  or  two 

Of  course  they  both  looked  round. 
They  both  were  pained,  they  both  explained 

What  caused  their  eyes  to  roam; 
And  nothing  after  that  remained 

But  he  should  see  her  home. 
It  happened  so — precisely  so 
As  all  their  friends  and  neighbours  know. 

[  292  ] 


A   Vers  de  Socieic  Anthology 

Next  day  to  that  'twas  common  chat, 

Admitting  no  debate, 
A  bonnet  close  beside  a  hat 

Was  sitting  on  a  gate. 
A  month,  not  more,  had  bustled  o'er, 

When,  braving  nod  and  smile, 
One  blushing  soul  came  through  the  door 
Where  two  went  up  the  aisle. 
It  happened  so— precisely  so — 
As  all  their  friends  and  neighbours  know 

Frederick  Langbrtdge. 


EYES  OF  BLACK  AND  EYES  OF  BLUE 

{Fro7n  the  Viceroy) 

ONE  day  I  swear  by  the  eyes  of  black, 
The  next  by  the  eyes  of  blue; 
'Tis  in  merry  black  eyes  that  the  love-light 
lies, 
But  the  blue  are  more  apt  to  be  true. 
The  dusky-eyed  maid  has  a  laughing  look 

That  can  make  you  the  world  forget,  my  boy; 
But  the  gentle  blue  eye  never  causes  a  sigh. 
And  it  rarely  denotes  the  coquette,  my  boy. 

Eyes  of  black  or  eyes  of  blue, 
Devil  a  bit  does  it  matter  I  say! 

If  I  love  one  to-day,  why  to-morrow  I  may 
Have  a  caprice  for  the  brovv^i  or  the  gray. 

[  293  ] 


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So  here  is  a  toast  to  the  feminine  host, 
The  blue  eyes  for  me  or  the  black  for  you. 

The  one  for  a  time  I  shall  think  sublime, 
And  then  if  you  like  I  will  change  with  you. 

One  day  I  sing  of  the  raven  curls, 

The  next  of  the  ringlets  fair. 
Be  mine  the  brunette  of  the  tresses  jet^ 

Mine  the  Hebe  of  golden  hair. 
For  the  gypsy-like  maid  has  a  heart  that's  warm, 

You  are  lucky  indeed  if  you're  hers,  my  boy; 
But  there's  many  a  blonde  can  be  equally  fond, 

If  you're  only  the  one  she  prefers,  my  boy. 

Raven  hair  or  hair  of  gold, 
Devil  a  bit  does  it  matter  I  say! 

If  I  love  one  to-day,  why  to-morrow  I  may 
Have  a  caprice  for  the  auburn  gay; 

So  here  is  a  toast  to  the  feminine  host, 
Blond  ringlets  for  me  and  the  black  for  you. 

The  one  for  a  time  I  shall  think  sublime. 
And  then  if  you  like  I  will  change  with  you. 

Harry  B.  Smith. 


[  294] 


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HER  FAULTS 

{From  the  Mandarin) 

MY  sweetheart  has  her  faults  in  plenty, 
Which  I  perceive  with  much  distress; 
For  instance,  she  is  only  twenty, 
And  one  would  think  her  even  less; 
While  I  may  mention  it  between  us — 
(Excuse  the  confidence  betrayed) — 
Her  form  is  plagiarized  from  Venus, 
And  no  acknowledgment  is  made. 
Her  hair  is  much  too  fine  and  curly; 
Her  lips  are  merely  Cupid's  bow; 
Her  teeth  absurdly  white  and  pearly; 
But  still  we  all  have  faults,  you  know. 

So,  spite  of  this  and  spite  of  that, 

Whate'er  betide,  whate'er  befall, 
These  things  let  others  cavil  at; 

I  love  my  sweetheart,  faults  and  all. 

From  such  defects  this  little  lady 

Of  mine  is  anything  but  free. 
Her  lashes  are  "extremely  shady," 

Her  eyes  are  "much  too  deep  for  me." 
Two  dimples  have  been  thought  too  many 

For  one  small  maiden  to  possess. 

[  295  ] 


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Her  rivals  wish  she  hadn't  any; 

But  what's  a  dimple  more  or  less  ? 
Her  voice  attracts  o'er  much  attention 

Because  of  its  melodious  ring. 
Her  foot — but  that  I  shall  not  mention — 

It's  such  a  very  little  thing. 

Yes,  spite  of  that  and  spite  of  this, 

Whate'er  betide,  w^hate'er  befall, 
Though  others  may  perfection  miss, 

I  love  my  sweetheart,  faults  and  all. 

Harry  B.  Smith. 


A  MODERN  DIALOGUE 

Scene — On  Manhattan  Island.     Time — To-day. 
flour — Ten-thirty.     Persons  of  the  play: 
Sibyl.     A  dream  of  beauty,  half  awake, 
In  filmy  disarray — about  to  take 
Her  morning  tub.     In  speech  with  her  the  while 
Is  Robert.     He  is  dressed  in  riding  style. 

Sibyl — ^Why,  Bob,  it's  you !     They  got-your  name 
all  wrong. 
I'm  sorry  that  I  >made  you  wait  so  long. 

Bob —   Only  six  minutes  by  my  w^atch — it's  true 
A  minute  seems  a  year,  awaiting  you! 
But  Time  is  merciful  and  I  rejoice 
That  I  am  still  alive  to  hear  your  voice. 
[  296  1 


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Sibyl — A  very  pretty  speech,  for  you,  indeed. 
But  what  extenuation  can  you  plead 
For  waking  ladies  at  the  break  of  day 
From  peaceful  slumbers,  sir! 

Bob —  Oh,  come,  I  say! 

It's  half-past  ten! 

Sibyl —  Well,  it  was  nearly  three 

Before  I  got  to  bed! 

Bob —  Good  gracious  me! 

I'm  sure  I'd  no  idea  it  was  so  late. 
Why,  I  was  riding  in  the  Park  at  eight 
And  looked  for  you.     I  own  I  felt  abused; 
Last  night  you  said — ■ — • 

Sibyl —  I  beg  to  be  excused 

From  keeping  foolish  promises,  when  made 
At  two  A.  M.,  by  moonlight'.     I'm  afraid 
My  memory's  no  better  than  a  sieve. 
So  you  expected  me  ?     The  Lord  forgive 
Your  trusting  soul! 

Bob — •  It  is  His  metier! 

Sibyl — Don't  be  outrageous,  or  I'll  run  away. 

Bob —   Ah,  no;  don't  go.     I  will  be  good,  I  swear  I 
'Twas  a  quotation,  Heine,  or  Voltaire, 
Or  some  fool  cynic  fellow.     By  the  way, 
If  you  have  nothing  on,  what  do  you  say 
To  breakfasting  with  Peg  and  me  at  noon 
At  the  Casino  ? 

Sibyl —  Well,  that's  rather  soon; 

I  can't  be  ready  for  an  hour  or  more. 

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Bob —   Come  as  you  are,  you  know  that  I  adore 
Your  ladyship  in  any  sort  of  gown; 
Besides,  there's  not  another  soul  in  town. 
Come  as  you  are;  there'll  only  be  we  three. 

Sibyl — ^Well,  I  like  that!     It's  fortunate  for  me 
This  is  a  telephone,  and  not  that  new 
Invention  one  can  talk  and  see  through,  too! 
What's  that  you  said  ? 

Bob —  I  didn't  speak  at  all 

I  only  thought. 

Sibyl —  Well,  don't!     Suppose  we  call 

The    breakfast    half-past    one    instead    of 
noon  ? 

Bob  (joyously) — 

Then  you  will  come  ? 

Sibyl —  •   I  swear! 

Bob — ■  Not  by  the  moon  ? 

Sibyl  (laughing) — 

No,  you  may  count  on  me.     Now  I  must 

fly- 

One-thirty — don't  forget — Good  by! 

Bob —  Good  by! 

(They  ring  off.) 

Oliver  Herford. 


[298] 


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THE  POET'S  PROPOSAL 

PHYLLIS,  if  I  could  I'd  paint  you 
As  I  see  you  sitting  there, 
You  distracting  little  saint,  you, 
With  your  aureole  of  hair. 
If  I  only  were  an  artist. 

And  such  glances  could  be  caught, 
You  should  have  the  very  smartest 
Picture  frame  that  can  be  bought! 

"Phyllis,  since  I  can't  depict  your 

Charms,  or  give  you  aught  but  fame, 

Will  you  be  yourself  the  picture  ? 
Will  you  let  me  be  the  frame  ? 

Whose  protecting  clasp  may  bind  you 
Always " 

"Nay,"  cried  Phyllis;  "hold, 

Or  you  '11  force  me  to  remind  you 
Paintings  must  be  framed  with  gold!" 

Oliver  Herjord. 

TRUTH 

PERMIT  me,  madame,  to  declare 
That  I  never  will  compare 
Eyes  of  yours  to  Starlight  cold. 
Or  your  locks  to  Sunlight's  gold, 
Or  your  lips,  I'd  have  you  know, 
To  the  crimson  Jacqueminot. 

[  299] 


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gy 


Stuff  like  that's  all  very  fine 
When  you  get  so  much  a  line; 
Since  I  don't,  I  scorn  to  tell 
Flattering  lies.     I  like  too  well 
Sun  and  Stars  and  Jacqueminot 
To  flatter  them,  I'd  have  you  know. 

Oliver  Merford. 


THE  BACHELOR  GIRL 

HERE'S  to  the  Bachelor  Girl 
Who  fain  her  charms  would  cloister. 
She  is  a  precious  pearl 

That  will  not  leave  the  oyster. 
She  is  a  proud  sweet-pea 
V  That  scorns  to  be  a  vine, 
And  lean  upon  a  tree 

Or  round  a  stick  entwine. 
"What!    lean  upon  a  stick! 

Oh,  no!    I'm  not  that  sort — 
I  will  grow  branches  thick 

And  be  my  own  support!" 
Beware,  O  pearl  of  price. 

Lest  you  be  cast  to  swine; 
O  proud  sweet-pea,  think  twice 

Ere  you  refuse  to  twine! 
O  Bachelor  Girl,  we  drink 

Confusion  to  your  plan; 
Beware,  lest  Fate  shall  link 

You  to  a  Spinster  Man! 
[  300] 


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O  change,  ere  'tis  too  late, 

The  Choker  tall  and  silly, 
The  tweeds- — the  hat  we  hate. 

For  something  soft  and  frilly! 
Take  off  the  stockings  blue, 

(We  will  avert  our  gaze), 
Then  will  we  drink  to  you 

Long  life — and  happy  days! 


Oliver  Herford. 


THE  SEA 


s 


HE  was  rich,  and  of  high  degree; 
A  poor  and  unknown  artist  he. 
"Paint  me,"  she  said,  "a  view  of  the  sea." 


So  he  painted  the  sea  as  it  looked  the  day 

That  Aphrodite  arose  from  its  spray; 

And  it  broke,  as  she  gazed  on  its  face  the  while, 

Into  its  countless-dimpled  smile. 

"What  a  poky,  stupid  picture!"  said  she; 

"I  don't  believe  he  can  paint  the  sea!" 

Then  he  painted  a  raging,  tossing  sea, 
Storming,  with  fierce  and  sudden  shock, 
Wild  cries,  and  writhing  tongues  of  foam, 
A  towering,  mighty  fastness-rock. 
In  its  sides,  above  those  leaping  crests. 
The  thronsing  sea-birds  built  their  nests. 
"What  a  disagreeable  daub!"  said  she; 
"Why,  it  isn't  anything  like  the  seal" 

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Then  he  painted  a  stretch  of  hot,  brown  sand, 

With  a  big  hotel  on  either  hand 

And  a  handsome  paviHon  for  the  band — ■ 

Not  a  sign  of  the  water  to  be  seen 

Except  one  faint  Httle  streak  of  green. 

"What  a  perfectly  exquisite  picture!"  said  she; 

It's  the  very  image  of  the  sea!" 

Eva  L.  Ogden. 


IN  PHILISTIA 

OF  all  the  places  on  the  map, 
Some  queer  and  others  queerer, 
Arcadia  is  dear  to  me, 
Philistia  is  dearer. 

There  dwell  the  few  who  never  knew 
The  pangs  of  heavenly  hunger. 
As  fresh  and  fair  and  fond  and  frail 
As  when  the  world  was  younger. 

If  there  is  any  sweeter  sound 
Than  bobolinks  or  thrushes, 
It  is  the  frou-frou  of  their  silks — 
The  roll  of  their  barouches. 

I  love  them  even  when  they're  good. 
As  well  as  when  they're  sinners — 
When  they  are  sad  and  worldly  wise 
And  when  they  are  beginners. 

[302  ] 


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(I  say  I  do;   of  course  the  fact, 
For  better  or  for  worse,  is, 
My  unerratic  life  denies 
My  too  erotic  verses). 

I  dote  upon  their  waywardness. 
Their  foibles  and  their  follies. 
If  there's  a  madder  pate  than  Di's, 
Perhaps  it  may  be  Dolly's. 

They  have  no  "problems"  to  discuss, 
No  "theories"  to  discover; 
They  are  not  "new;"  and  I — I  am 
Their  very  grateful  lover. 

I  care  not  if  their  minds  confuse 

Alastor  with  Aladdin; 

And  Cimabue  is  far  less 

To  them  than  Chimmie  Fadden. 

They  never  heard  of  William  Blake, 
Nor  saw  a  Botticelli; 
Yet  one  is,  "Yours  till  death,  Louise,' 
And  one,  "Your  loving  Nelly." 

They  never  tease  me  for  my  views, 
Nor  tax  me  with  my  grammar; 
Nor  test  me  on  the  latest  news, 
Until  I  have  to  stammer. 

[303  ] 


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They  never  talk  about  their  "moods," 
They  never  know  they  have  them; 
The  world  is  good  enough  for  them, 
And  that  is  why  I  love  them. 

They  never  puzzle  me  with  Greek, 
Nor  drive  me  mad  with  Ibsen; 
Yet  over  forms  as  fair  as  Eve's 
They  wear  the  gowns  of  Gibson. 

Bliss  Carman. 


BETWEEN  THE  SHOWERS 

BETWEEN  the  showers  I  went  my  way, 
The     glistening     street    was     bright    with 
flowers; 
It  seemed  that  March  had  turned  to  May 

Between  the  showers. 

Above  the  shining  roofs  and  towers 

The  blue  broke  forth  athwart  the  gray; 
Birds  carolled  in  their  leafless  bowers. 

Hither  and  thither,  swift  and  gay, 

The  people  chased  the  changeful  hours; 
And  you,  you  passed  and  smiled  that  day. 

Between  the  showers. 

Amy  Levy. 


[304] 


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GRACE'S  CHOICE 

WHEN  first  I  saw  fair-featured  Grace^ 
In  dainty  tailor-fashioned  gown, 
I  fell  in  love  with  her  sweet  face, 
And  pooh-poohed  at  her  escort,  Brown. 
The  fellow's  rich,  but  such  a  clown! 
I  did  not  fear  he'd  rival  me — 

I,  Reginald  de  Courcy  Drowne, 
With  wealth  and — looks  and  pedigree. 

I  set  the  man  a  red-hot  pace; 

It  was  the  talk  of  all  the  town; 
I  knew  that  I  was  loved  by  Grace — 

I  knew  it  by  that  yokel's  frown. 

My  ancestors  won  great  renown. 
While  Brown  has  no  ancestral  tree. 

I  knew  I  could  the  fellow  down, 
With  wealth  and — looks  and  pedigree. 

She's  married  now;   has  rare  point  lace. 

And  jewels  fit  to  deck  a  crown. 
The  man  who  calls  her  "darling  Grace," 

Is  not  the  fellow  they  call  Brown. 

No,  I'm  the  happiest  man  in  town. 
I  knew  she'd  not  say  no  to  me. 

One  rarely  sees  Dame  Fortune  frown 
On  wealth  and — ^looks  and  pedigree. 

[305  ] 


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ENVOY 

You  thought  that  Grace  would  marry  Brown, 
As  in  most  ballades  that  you  see, 

But  she  did  not.     For  her  no  clown — 
But  wealth  and— looks  and  pedigree. 

Charles  Battell  Loomis. 


T 


TO  VIOLET 

{With  a  Bunch  of  Namesakes) 

HERE  is  a  maid — I  am  afraid 
To  give  her  name  to  you — 
Who  makes  great  pets  of  violets — 
I  wish  I  were  one,  too. 


Once  in  her  youth,  this  all  is  truth, 

She  took  some  up  to  smell; — 
In  some  strange  way  the  records  say, 

Into  her  eyes  they  fell 

And  there  they  stayed — they  never  fade — ■ 

She  looks  at  me — sometimes, — 
And  then — Oh,  then  I  seize  my  pen 

And  fall  to  writing  rhymes. 

But,  sad  mischance!     My  consonants 

Desert — four  vowels,  too; 
A,  E,  O,  I,  take  wings,  that's  why 

My  rhymes  are  filled  with  U. 

Robert  Cameron  Rogers. 

[306] 


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HER  BONNET 

WHEN  meeting-bells  began  to  toll, 
And  pious  folk  began  to  pass, 
She  deftly  tied  her  bonnet  on, 
The  little,  sober  meeting  lass. 
All  in  her  neat,  white-curtained  room,  before  her 
tiny  looking-glass. 

So  nicely,  round  her  lady-cheeks. 
She  smoothed  her  hands  of  glossy  hair. 
And  innocently  wondered  if 
Her  bonnet  did  not  make  her  fair — 
Then  sternly  chid  her  foolish  heart  for  harboring 
such  fancies  there. 

So  square  she  tied  the  satin  strings, 
And  set  the  bows  beneath  her  chin; 
Then  smiled  to  see  how  sweet  she  looked; 
Then  thought  her  vanity  a  sin. 
And  she  must  put  such  thoughts  away  before  the 
sermon  should  begin. 


-to' 


But,  sitting  'neath  the  preached  Word, 
Demurely  in  her  father's  pew. 
She  thought  about  her  bonnet  still, — 
Yes,  all  the  parson's  sermon  through, — 
About  its  pretty  bows  and  buds  which  better  than 
the  text  she  knew. 

[3C7  ] 


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Yet  sitting  there  with  peaceful  face, 
The  reflex  of  her  simple  soul, 
She  looked  to  be  a  very  saint — 
And  mavbe  was  one,  on  the  whole — 
Only  that  her  pretty  bonnet  kept  away  the  aureole. 

Mary  E.  Wilkiiis. 


I 


A  SONG 

WILL  not  say  my  true  love's  eyes 
Outshine  the  noblest  star; 
But  in  their  depth  of  lustre  lies 
My  peace,  my  truce,  my  war. 


I  will  not  say  upon  her  neck 

Is  white  to  shame  the  snow; 
For  if  her  bosom  hath  a  speck 

I  would  not  have  it  go. 

My  love  is  as  a  woman  sweet, 

And  as  a  woman  white; 
Who's  more  than  this  is  more  than  meet 

For  me  and  my  delight. 

Norman  R.  Gale. 


[308I 


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LES  PAPILLOTTES 

EULALIA  sat  before  the  glass 
While  Betty  smoothed  her  hair. 
The  mirror  told  her  how  she  was 
Attractive,  young  and  fair; 
Curtius  was  telling  her  the  same 
In  rosy  note,  where  he  confessed  his  flame. 

She  read  with  a  satiric  eye 

Of  passion,  hope  and  pain; 
Then,  careless  tossed  the  pooV  note  by; 
Then,  took  it  up  again, 
And  systematically  tore, 
And  folded  each  strip  carefully  in  four, 

And  handed  in  fine  scorn  each  bit 

Of  rapture  to  the  maid. 
Who  wot  how  to  dispose  of  it. 
The  beauty,  disarrayed, 
Now  crept  in  bed,  blew  out  the  light 
Her  locks  in  pink  curh-papers  for  the  night. 

She  slept;    and  with  each  gentle  breath 

The  paper  in  her  hair 
Soft  rustled,  and,  the  story  saith, 
Repeated  to  the  air 
Whate'er  stood  on  it  fervent  thino- — 
As  if  the  lover's  self  were  whispering. 

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And  through  her  dream  she  heard  it  say, 

The  twist  o'er  her  left  ear, — 
"I  vow  that  I  must  love  alway 
The  dearest  of  the  dear." 
And  o'er  her  forehead  spoke  a  twist, 
"That  stolen  glove  I've  kissed  and  over-kissed." 

Said  on,  "Thou  are  the  loveliest; 

Thy  beauty  I  adore." 
Another,  smaller  than  the  rest. 

Sighed,  "Love,  love,"  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  one  said,  "Pity  my  sad  plight!" 
So  Curtius'  passion  pleaded  all  the  night. 

Eulalia  waking  in  the  morn. 
Large-eyed,  sat  up  in  bed. 
While  vows  the  tend'rest  that  be  sworn 
Still  whispered  in  her  head; — 
A  dreamy  bliss  her  soul  possessed, — 
She  rang  for  Betty;    and  before  she  dressed, 

Upon  a  subtly  perfumed  sheet. 
As  Curtius'  own,  blush-pink. 
She  penned  with  crow-quill  small  and  neat, 
And  perfumed  crow-black  ink. 
In  flowing  hand  right  tidily. 
The  proper,  simple  message,  "Come  at  three." 

Gertrude  Hall. 


[310] 


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UPON   GRACIOSA,   WALKING    AND 
TALKING 

WHEN  as  abroad,  to  greet  the  morn, 
I  mark  my  Graciosa  walk, 
In  homage  bends  the  whisp'ring  corn. 
Yet  to  confess 
Its  awkwardness 
Must  hang  its  head  upon  the  stalk. 

And  when  she  talks,  her  lips  do  heal 

The  wounds  her  lightest  glances  give: — 
In  pity  then  be  harsh,  and  deal 
Such  wounds  that  I 
May  hourly  die. 
And,  by  a  word  restored,  live. 

A.  Quiller-Coiich. 


HER  VALENTINE 

WHAT,  send  her  a  valentine  ?     Never! 
I  see  you  don't  know  who  "she"  is. 
I  should  ruin  my  chances  forever; 
My  hopes  would  collapse  with  a  fizz. 

I  can't  see  why  she  scents  such  disaster 
When  I  take  heart  to  venture, a  word; 

I've  no  dream  of  becoming  her  master, 
I've  no  notion  of  being  her  lord. 

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All  I  want  is  to  just  be  her  lover! 

She's  the  most  up-to-date  of  her  sex, 
And  there's  such  a  multitude  of  her, 

No  wonder  they  call  her  complex. 

She's  a  bachelor,  even  when  married,     , 
She's  a  vagabond,  even  when  housed; 

And  if  ever  her  citadel's  carried 

Her  suspicions  must  not  be  aroused. 

She's  erratic,  impulsive  and  human. 
And  she  blunders, — as  goddesses  can; 

But  if  she's  what  they  call  the  New  Woman, 
Then  I'd  like  to  be  the  New  Man. 

I'm  glad  she  makes  books  and  paints  pictures, 
And  typewrites  and  hoes  her  own  row. 

And  it's  quite  beyond  reach  of  conjectures 
How  much  further  she's  going  to  go. 

When  she  scorns,  in  the  L-road,  my  proffer 
Of  a  seat  and  hangs  on  to  a  strap; 

I  admire  her  so  much,  I  could  offer 
To  let  her  ride  up  on  my  lap. 

Let  her  undo  the  stays  of  the  ages, 

That  have  cramped  and  confined  her  so  long! 

Let  her  burst  through  the  frail  candy  cages 
That  fooled  her  to  think  they  were  strong! 

She  may  enter  life's  wide  vagabondage, 
She  may  do  without  flutter  or  frill. 

She  may  take  off  the  chains  of  her  bondage, — 
And  anything  else  that  she  will. 

[  Z^2  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

She  may  take  me  off,  for  example, 

And  she  probably  does  when  I'm  gone. 

I'm  aware  the  occasion  is  ample; 
That's  why  I  so  often  take  on. 

I'm  so  glad  she  can  win  her  own  dollars 
And  know  all  the  freedom  it  brings. 

I  love  her  in  shirt-waists  and  collars, 
I  love  her  in  dress-reform  things. 

I  love  her  in  bicycle  skirtlings — 
Especially  when  there's  a  breeze — • 

I  love  her  in  crinklings  and  quirklings 
And  anything  else  that  you  please. 

I  dote  on  her  even  in  bloomers — 
If  Parisian  enough  in  their  style — 

In  fact,  she  may  choose  her  costumers, 
Wherever  her  fancy  beguile. 

She  may  box,  she  may  shoot,  she  may  wrestle, 
She  may  argue,  hold  office  or  vote. 

She  may  engineer  turret  or  trestle. 
And  build  a  few  ships  that  will  float. 

She  may  lecture  (all  lectures  but  curtain) 
Make  money,  and  naturally  spend. 

If  I  let  her  have  her  way,  I'm  certain 
She'll  let  me  have  mine  in  the  end ! 

Richard  Hovey. 


[SU  ] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


STORY  OF  THE  GATE 

ACROSS  the  pathway,  myrtle-fringed, 
Under  the  maple,  it  was  hinged — 
The  little  wooden  gate; 
'Twas  there  within  the  quiet  gloam. 
When  I  had  strolled  with  Nelly  home, 
I  used  to  pause  and  wait. 

Before  I  said  to  her  good-night, 

Yet  loath  to  leave  the  winsome  sprite 

Within  the  garden's  pale; 
And  there,  the  gate  between  us  two. 
We'd  linger  as  all  lovers  do. 

And  lean  upon  the  rail. 

And  face  to  face,  eyes  close  to  eyes. 
Hands  meeting  hands  in  feigned  surprise. 

After  a  stealthy  quest, — 
So  close  I'd  bend,  ere  she'd  retreat. 
That  I'd  grow  drunken  from  the  sweet 

Tuberose  upon  her  breast. 

We'd  talk— in  fitful  style,  I  ween — 
With  many  a  meaning  glance  between 

The  tender  words  and  low; 
We'd  whisper  some  dear,  sweet  conceit, 
Some  idle  gossip  we'd  repeat. 

And  then  I'd  move  to  go. 

[314] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

"Good-night,"  I'd  say;  "Good-night — good-by!" 
"Good-night" — from  her  with  half  a  sigh — 

"Good-night!"  "Good-night!"  And  then 
And  then  I  do  not  go,  but  stand, 
Again  lean  on  the  railing,  and — • 

Begin  it  all  again. 

Ah!   that  was  many  a  day  ago — 
That  pleasant  summer-time — although 

The  gate  is  standing  yet; 
A  little  cranky,  it  may  be, 
A  little  weather-worn' — like  me — 

Who  never  can  forget. 

The  happy  "End"  ?     My  cynic  friend, 
Pray  save  your  sneers — there  was  no  "end." 

Watch  yonder  chubby  thing  ! 
That  is  our  youngest,  hers  and  mine; 
See  how  he  climbs,  his  legs  to  twine 

About  the  gate  and  swing. 

Harrison  Robertson, 


[315] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


TWO  TRIOLETS 


{What  He  Said) 

THIS  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press, 
Ah!   Saint  Nitouche,  you  don't  refuse  it, 
And  may  it  from  its  soft  recess, 
This  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press, 
Be  blown  to  you  a  shy  caress 

By  this  white  down  whene'er  you  use  it; 
This  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press. 

Ah  !    Saint  Nitouche,  you  don't  refuse  it. 


II 


{What  She  Thought) 

To  kiss  a  fan! 

What  a  poky  poet! 
The  stupid  man 
To  kiss  a  fan. 
When  he  knows  that — he — can, 

Or  ought  to  know  it. 
To  kiss  a  fan! 

What  a  poky  poet ! 

Harrison  Robertson. 


[316] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


A  BALLADE  OF  OLD  SWEETHEARTS 

WHO   is   it   that  weeps   for  the   last  year's 
flowers 
When  the  wood  is  aflame  with  the  fires 
of  spring, 
And  we  hear  her  voice  in  the  Hlac  bowers 
As  she  croons  the  runes  of  the  blossoming  ? 
For  the  same  old  blooms  do  the  new  years  bring, 
But  not  to  our  lives  do  the  years  come  so, 

New  lips  must  kiss  and  new  bosoms  cling. — • 
Ah!    lost  are  the  loves  of  the  long  ago. 

Ah  me!    for  a  breath  of  those  morning  hours 
When  Alice  and  I  went  a-wandering 

Through  the  shining  fields,  and  it  still  was  ours 
To  kiss  and  to  feel  we  were  shuddering — 
Ah  me!   when  a  kiss  was  a  holy  thing — 

How  sweet  were  a  smile  from  Maud,  and  oh! 
With  Phyllis  once  more  to  be  whispering — 

Ah  !   lost  are  the  loves  of  the  long  ago. 

But  it  cannot  be  that  old  Time  devours 

Such  loves  as  was  Annie's  and  mine  we  sing, 
And  surely  beneficent  heavenly  powers 

Save  Muriel's  beauty  from  perishing; 

And  if  in  some  golden  evening 
To  a  quaint  old  garden  I  chance  to  go, 

Shall  Marion  no  more  by  the  wicket  sing  ? — 
Ah  !    lost  are  the  loves  of  the  long  ago. 

'[317] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

l'envoi 

In  these  lives  of  ours  do  the  new  years  bring 
Old  loves  as  old  flowers  again  to  blow  ? 

Or  do  new  lips  kiss  and  new  bosoms  cling  ? — 
Ah  !    lost  are  the  loves  of  the  long  ago. 

Richard  he  Gailienne. 


AMOUR  DE  VOYAGE 

AND  I  was  a  man  who  could  write  you  rhyme 
(Just  so  much  for  you,  nothing  more), 
And  you  were  the  woman  I  loved  for  a  time — 
Loved  for  a  little,  and  nothing  more. 
We  shall  go  our  ways  when  the  voyage  is  o'er, 

You  with  your  beauty  and  I  with  my  rhymes. 
With  a  dim  remembrance  rising  at  times 

(Only  a  memory,  nothing  more) 
Of  a  lovely  face  and  some  worthless  rhymes. 

Meantime  till  our  comedy  reaches  its  end 
(It's  comic  ending,  and  nothing  more) 

I  shall  live  as  your  lover  who  loved  as  a  friend — 
^hall  swear  true  love  till  Life  be  o'er. 

And  you,  you  must  make  believe  and  attend, 
As  the  steamer  throbs  from  shore  to  shore. 

And  so,  we  shall  pass  the  time  for  a  little 
(Pass  it  in  pleasure,  and  nothing  more). 

For  vows,  alas!    are  sadly  brittle. 

And  each  may  forget  the  oaths  that  we  swore. 

[318] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


And  have  we  not  loved  for  an  age,  and  age  ? 

And  was  I  not  yours  from  shore  to  shore  ? 
From  landing-stage  to  landing-stage 

Did  I  not  worship  and  kneel  and  adore  ? 
And  what  is  a  month  in  love  but  an  age  ? 

And  who  in  their  senses  would  wish  for  more  ? 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


THE  LOVERS'  LITANY 

EYES  of  gray — a  sodden  quay, 
Driving  rain  and  falling  tears, 
As  the  steamer  wears  to  sea 
In  a  parting  storm  of  cheers. 

Sing,  for  Faith  and  Hope  are  high — 
None  so  true  as  you  and  I — 
Sing  the  Lovers'  Litany: — 
"Love  like  ours  can  never  die!" 

Eyes  of  black — a  throbbing  keel, 

Milky  foam  to  left  and  right; 

Whispered  converse  near  the  wheel 

In  the  brilliant  tropic  night. 

Cross  that  rules  the  Southern  Sky! 
Stars  that  sweep  and  wheel  and  fly 
Hear  the  Lovers'  Litany: — 
"Love  like  ours  can  never  die!" 

Eyes  of  brown — a  dusty  plain 
Split  and  parched  with  heat  of  June, 
Flying  hoof  and  tightened  rein, 
Hearts  that  beat  the  old    old  tune. 

[  319  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


Side  by  side  the  horses  fly, 
Frame  we  now  the  old  reply 
Of  the  Lovers'  Litany: — 

"Love  like  ours  can  never  die! 


>t 


Eyes  of  blue — the  Simla  Hills 
Silvered  with  the  moonlight  hoar; 
Pleading  of  the  waltz  that  thrills, 
Dies  and  echoes  round  Benmore. 

"Mabel,"  "Officers,"  " Good-by 

Glamour,  wine,  and  witchery — 

On  my  soul's  sincerity, 

"Love  like  ours  can  never  die!" 


Maidens,  of  your  charity, 

Pity  my  most  luckless  state. 

Four  times  Cupid's  debtor  I — 

Bankrupt  in  quadruplicate. 
Yet,  despite  this  evil  case. 
And  a  maiden  showed  me  grace, 
Four-and-forty  times  would  I 
Sing  the  Lovers'  Litany: — 
"Love  like  ours  can  never  die!" 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


[320] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


A  LENTEN  CALL 

'nnWAS  the  second  of  March,  in  the  present 

1  year, 

And  the  morning  after  a  revel. 
When  the  world  and  the  flesh  made  a  party  call, 

Accompanied  by  the  Devil. 

Their  coats  were  creaseless,  their  "patents"  shone, 
And  the  Devil  smiled  most  sweetly, 

To  think  that  a  carefully  built-up  shoe, 
Hid  his  cloven  hoof  completely. 

They  rang  the  bell  at  Society's  door, 
Sent  in  their  names  and  stood  waiting. 

The  usual  warm  reception  there 
Serenely  anticipating. 

But  the  white-capped  maid  returned  and  said 

In  a  voice  demurely  level, 
That  her  mistress  was  not  at  home  that  day 

To  the  World,  the  Flesh  or  the  Devil. 

The  World  and  the  Flesh  grew  pale — as  well 

They  might  do,  with  propriety — 
For  they'd  be  in  a  parlous  state,  without 

The  countenance  of  Society. 

[321  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

And  even  the  Devil  looked  half-perplexed 
Till  he  cried — "Ah!    I  see  the  reason! 

It  is  one  of  Society's  yearly  fads, 
And  this  is  the  Lenten  season." 

Then  they  all  three  laughed,  both  loud  and  long, 

For  it  certainly  did  relieve  them 
To  think  that  after  some  forty  days 

Society  v^ould  receive  them; 

And  that  the  unwonted  quiet  v^ould  give 

Nev\^  zest  to  each  after-revel, 
When  Society  opened  her  doors  again 

To  the  World,  the  Flesh  and  the  Devil. 

Hilda  Johnson  Wise. 


HELEN'S  FACE  A  BOOK 

HELEN'S  face  is  Hke  a  book- 
Charming,  all  its  pages. 
Helen's  face  is  like  a  book; 
What's  the  story  I  forsook. 
When  on  Helen's  face  I  look, 
When  her  smile  engages  ? 

There  I  read  an  old  romance; 

Here,  I  see  one  living! 
There,  I  read  an  old  romance. 
But  in  Helen's  lightest  glance 
Far  a  livelier  tale  enchants, 

Wild  excitement  giving! 
[  322  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societc  A tithology 

What  is  printer's  ink  to  me  ? 

Commas,  dots  and  dashes! 
What  is  printer's  ink  to  me, 
If  with  Helen  I  may  be, 
Exclamation  points  to  see 

Underneath  her  lashes  ? 

Gelett  Burgess. 


THE  BUTTERFLY'S  MADRIGAL 

CVE-for-a-day,  come  let's  be  gay ! 
Love,  for  a  day,  thy  lips  are  smiling! 
Love-for-a-week,  our  bliss  we'll  seek. 
Love,  for  a  week,  dull  care  beguiling ! 
Love-for-a-year,  be  true  my  dear ! 

Love,  for  a  year — and  then  we'll  sever; 
Love  for  a  day  or  year  we  may, 
But  Love  for  aye — ah,  never! 

Gelett  Burgess. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  DEVIL-MAY-CARE 

FREE  as  the  wandering  pike  am  I, 
Many  the  strings  to  my  amorous  bow, 
More  than  a  little  inclined  to  fly 
Butterfly  lovering,  to  and  fro; 
Happy  wherever  the  flowers  blow. 
With  the  dew  on  the  leaf,  and  the  sunshine  above, 

Terribly  wrong  and  unprincipled  ?     No, 
Life  is  too  short  to  be  "dead  in  love!" 

[  323  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 

Not  for  me  is  the  lover's  sigh; 

Fools  are  they  to  be  worrying  so! 
Sipping  my  fill  of  the  honey  I  fly 

Butterfly  lovering,  to  and  fro. 

I  skim  the  cream,  and  let  all  else  go; 
Gather  my  roses,  and  give  a  shove 

Over  my  shoulder  at  dutiful  woe, — 
Life  is  too  short  to  be  "dead  in  love!" 

So,  while  the  fanciful  hours  go  by, 

I  gayly  reap  what  the  simpletons  sow. 
Fresh  with  their  bloom  are  the  fruits  I  try, 

Butterfly  lovering,  to  and  fro. 

Then  here's  to  the  lady  who  wears  her  beau 
On  and  off,  like  a  dainty  glove! 

And  here's  to  the  zephyrs  that  all-ways  blow — 
Life  is  too  short  to  be  "dead  in  love!" 

ENVOY 

Prince,  who  cares  for  the  coming  snow, 
Butterfly  lovering  to  and  fro  ? 
Why  should  a  man  be  a  turtle-dove  ? 
Life  is  too  short  to  be  "dead  in  love!" 

Gelett  Burgess. 


[324] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


BALLADE  OF  DREAMS  TRANSPOSED 

SOME  may  like  to  be  shut  in  a  cage, 
Cooped  in  a  corner,  a-tippling  tea, 
Some  may  in  troublesome  toil  engage; 
But  the  luck  of  a  rover's  the  thing  for  me! 
Over  the  mountain  and  over  the  sea. 
Now  in  the  country  and  now  in  the  town. 

And  when  I'm  wrinkled  and  withered,  maybe, 
Then  I'll  marry  and  settle  down. 

Some  may  pore  over  printed  page 

And  never  know  bird,  nor  beast,  nor  tree, 
iVatching  the  world  from  book  or  stage; 

But  the  luck  of  a  rover's  the  thing  for  me! 

So  ho!    for  the  forest,  and  ho!    for  the  lea, 
4nd  ho!    for  the  river  and  prairie  brown, 

And  ho!    for  a  gay  long  jubilee, — 
Then  I'll  marry  and  settle  down. 

Why  should  I  wait  till  a  gray  old  age 

Brings  me  chance  to  be  rich  and  free  ? 
I  have  no  money^ — -it  makes  me  rage; 

But  the  luck  of  a  rover's  the  thins;  for  me! 

Though  oft,  with  my  lover  upon  my  knee 
(She  has  frolicsome  eyes  and  a  fetching  gown!) 

I  fear  if  my  heart's  to  be  held  in  fee, — 
Then  I'll  marry  and  settle  down. 

[325] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

ENVOY 

Prince,  my  sweetheart  will  not  agree, — 
But  the  luck  of  a  rover's  the  thing  for  me! 
She  says  I  must  stay,  and  I  fear  her  frown, — 
Then  I'll  marry  and  settle  down. 

Gelett  Burgess. 


VILLANELLE  OF  HIS  LADY'S  TREASURE 


I 


TOOK  her  dainty  eyes,  as  well 
As  silken  tendrils  of  her  hair: 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle! 


I  took  her  voice,  a  silver  bell. 

As  clear  as  song,  as  soft  as  prayer; 
I  took  her  dainty  eyes  as  well. 

It  may  be,  said  I,  who  can  tell, 

These  things  shall  be  my  less  despair  ? 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle! 

I  took  her  whiteness  virginal 

And  from  her  cheek  two  roses  rare: 
I  took  her  dainty  eyes  as  well. 

I  said:   "It  may  be  possible 

Her  image  from  my  heart  to  tear!" 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle. 

[326] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


I  stole  her  laugh,  most  musical: 

I  wrought  it  in  with  artful  care; 
I  took  her  dainty  eyes  as  well; 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle. 

Ernest  Dowson. 


L'ENVOI 

GO,  pretty  Rose,  and  to  her  tell 
All  I  would  say,  could  I  but  see 
The  slender  form  I  know  so  well, 
The  roguish  eyes  that  laughed  at  me. 

And  when  your  fragrance  fills  the  room, 

Tell  her  of  all  I  hope  and  fear; 
With  every  breath  of  sweet  perfume, 

Whisper  my  greetings  in  her  ear. 

But,  Roses,  stay — there  is  one  thing 
You  must  not  mention  (don't  forget. 

For  it  might  be  embarrassing). 

And  that  is,  you're  not  paid  for  yet! 

E.  B.  Reed. 


[327] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Antholo 


gy 


A  MERRY  BLUE-EYED  LADDIE 

A    MERRY    blue-eyed    laddie    goes    laughing 
through  the  town, 
Singing,  "Hey,  but  the  world  is  a  gay,  gay, 
place!" 
And  every  little  lassie  smooths  her  tumbled  locks 

a-down. 
And  brings  out  all  her  dimples  and  hides  away  her 
frown, 
And  lays  aside  her  broom  and  mop,  the  bonnie 

boy  to  chase, 
Singing,    "Hey,    but   the  world    is    a    gay,   gay 
place!" 

But  away  the  blue-eyed  laddie  goes  to  seek  another 
town, 
Singing,  "  Hey,  but  the  world  is  a  gay,  gay  place! " 
Then  every  dimple  vanishes,  and  back  comes  every 

frown, 
And    every    little    lassie    folds    away    her    Sunday 
gown. 
With  tear-drops  trickling  sadly  down  her  woful 

little  face. 
Sighing,    "Hey,    but   the   world    is    a    sad,    sad 
place!" 

Juliet  Wilbour  Tompkins. 


[328] 


A   Vers  de  Societc  Anthology 


DANCE   TIME 

IT'S  I  live  in  a  very  v^^ise  town 
As  all  wise  people  know: 
They  read,  they  write,  they  read  all  day 
As  orchard-trees  do  grow. 

Said  I, — I  was  a  young  thing  then, 
And  a  foolish  young  thing,  too, — 
"I  will  not  spend  my  little  life  thus; 
There's  much  I'd  rather  do. 

"For  I  would  rather  look  at  you 
This  way,  with  happy  looks. 
Than  lose  the  stars  from  my  two  eyes 
With  poring  over  books. 

"I'd  rather  far  be  red  and  white 

For  stupid  folks  to  see 

Than  write  nine  books  for  little  dull  worms 

To  eat  them,  leisurely. 

"And  I  would  rather  have  it  said 
When  all  my  days  are  through, 
'O  she  was  good  to  see  and  hear 
And  say  Good-morning  to!' 

"When  learning  makes  you  white  and  red 
And  fresh  as  west-winds  blow, 
I  may  spend  sun  and  candle-light 
To  learn  what  they  all  know. 

[329I 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

"But  O,  the  wise  in  this  wise  town, 
They  have  no  longer  prime. 
And  there  are  fewer  wise  men,  now, 
Than  once  upon  a  time  !" 

"Josephine  Preston  Peahody  Marks. 


HOW  LIKE  A  WOMAN 

I  WANTED  you  to  come  to-day — 
Or  so  I  told  you  in  my  letter — 
And  yet,  if  you  had  stayed  away, 
I  should  have  liked  you  so  much  better. 
I  should  have  sipped  my  tea  unseen. 

And  thrilled  at  every  door-bell's  pealing, 
And  thought  how  nice  I  could  have  been 
Had  you  evinced  a  little  feeling. 

I  should  have  guessed  you  drinking  tea 

With  someone  whom  you  loved  to  madness; 
I  should  have  thought  you  cold  to  me, 

And  revelled  in  a  depth  of  sadness. 
But,  no!   you  came  without  delay — 

I  could  not  feel  myself  neglected : 
You  said  the  things  you  always  say. 

In  ways  not  wholly  unexpected. 

If  you  had  let  me  wait  in  vain. 

We  should,  in  my  imagination, 
Have  held,  what  we  did  not  attain, 

A  most  dramatic  conversation. 


A  Vers  de  Soctete  A nthology 

Had  you  not  come,  I  should  have  known 

At  least  a  vague  anticipation, 
Instead  of  which,  I  grieve  to  own. 

You  did  not  give  me  one  sensation. 

Caroline  and  Alice  Duer. 


A  VIGNETTE 

CUPID,  playing  blind  man's  buff, 
Seized  my  Psyche's  floating  tresses. 
Here  is  silken  clue  enough 
To  dispense  with  any  guesses. 
This  is  Psyche's  golden  fleece: 
She's  my  prisoner,  past  release. 
But  the  lookers-on  declare 
Love  was  caught  in  Psyche's  hair. 

Caroline  Duer. 


C331  ] 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


333 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Age  of  Wisdom,  The       .     . 

All   things   Except   Myself   I 

Know 

American  Girl,  An  .  .  .  . 
Amour  de  Voyage  .  .  .  . 
Amy's  Cruelty 


Applied  Astronomy 
Ask  and  Have    . 
At  the  Lattice    . 
Avice       .      .      .      . 


William  Makepeace 
Thackeray   .      .     •.      . 

Francois  Villon    . 
Brander  Matthews     . 
Rudyard  Kipling 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing     

Esther  B.  Tifjany 
Samuel  Lover 
Alfred  Austin 
Austin  Dob  son 

Bachelor  Girl,  The       .     .  Oliver  Her  ford     . 

Bagatelle,  A James  G.  Burnett 

Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse,  The  .   William  Makepeace 

Thackeray  .      .      .      . 

Ballad    of    Cassandra    Brown, 

The Helen  Gray  Cone 

Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies,  The    .   Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti     . 

Ballade     Made     in     the     Hot 

Weather W.  E.  Henley 

Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies  (After 

Villon) Andrew  Lang 

Ballade     of     Dreams     Trans- 
posed    Gelett  Burgess 

Ballade  of  June       .      .      .      .   W.  E.  Henley 

Ballade  of  Ladies'  Names  .      .   W.  E.  Henley 

Ballade  of  Old  Sweethearts,  A    Richard  Le  Gallienne 

Ballade  of  Summer       .      .      .   Andrew  Lang 

Ballade  of  the  Devil-May-Care  Gelett  Burgess 

Ballade  of  the  Summer-Boarder 

The H.  C.  Bunner      . 

Be  Ye  in  Love  with  April-Tide  ?  Clinto?i  Scollard   . 

Because Edward  Fitzgerald 

[335  ] 


PAGE 
82 

6 

241 
318 

68 
291 

59 
151 
177 

300 
228 

83 

278 
125 


238 


199 

325 
237 
236 

317 
196 

323 

254 
289 

73 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

PAGE 

Before  the  Blossom       .      .      .   Robert  Underwood  John- 
son     246 

Belle  of  the  Ball-Room,  The    .   Winthrop  Mackworth 

Praed 64 

Best  of  the  Ball,  The     .      .      .   William  Sawyer  .      .      .123 
Best  Thing  in  the  World,  The  Anonymous     ....    223 
Between  the  Showers    .      .      .   Amy  Levy       ....   304 
Beware  ! Henry  Wadsworlh  Long- 
fellow      70 

Biftek  aux  Champignons   .      .  Henry  Augustin  Beers     .   206 

Bluebell',  The Margaret  Deland       .      .    274 

Borderland Herman  Knickerbocker 

Viele 269 

Bracelet,  The Robert  Herrick     ...      16 

Brighton  Pier     .....   Clement  Scott ....    191 
Butterfly's  Madrigal,  The        .  Gelett  Burgess      .      .      .323 

Caeli Francis  William  Bourdil- 

lon 244 

Caprice William  Dean  Howells   .    167 

Certain  Young  Lady,  A     .      .  Washington  Irving    .      .     37 

Cherry-Ripe Richard  Allison    .      .      .11 

Clubs Theodore  Hook    ...     48 

Colinette Andrew  Lang       .      .      .    198 

Comfort Mortimer  Collins       .      .119 

Commination Walter  Savage  Landor    .     36 

Conceit,  A Mortimer  Collins       .      .122 

Contradiction,  A      .      .      .      .  Clement  Scott  ...      .      .    192 

Contrast,  The Charles  Morris     ...      24 

Conversational Anonymous     .      .      .      .219 

Coquette,  The.     A  Portrait    .  John  Godfrey  Saxe    .      .     96 

Corsage  Bouquet,  A      .      .      .  Charles  Llenry  Liiders    .   277 

Courtship Frederick  Langbridge      .   292 

Cupid Ben  Jonson     ....       4 

Cupid  and  Campaspe  .      .      .  John  Lilly       ....       8 

Cupid  Mistaken      ....  Matthew  Prior     ...     23 

Da  Capo H.  C.  Buntier      .      .      .  260 

Dance  Time Josephine    Preston    Pea- 
body  Marks       .      .      -  329 

Defiance Walter  Savage  Landor    .  35 

"Dernier  Jour  d'un  Condamne 

Le" George  A.  Baker  .      .      .  212 

[336] 


Index   of  Titles 


Despairing  Lover,  The       .      .   William  Walsh     ...  22 

Dictum  Sapienti      ....   Charles  Henry  Wehb       .  144 

Ditty,  A Sir  Philip  Sydney     .      .  8 

"Don't" James  Jeffrey  Roche  .      .  204 

Dorothy  Q.    A  Family  Portrait  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .  78 

Edged  Tools Edmund    Clarence    Sted- 

man 140 

Educational  Courtship        .      .   Anonymous     .      .      .      .221 

Epithalamium E.  S.  Martin  ....    270 

Exchange,  The Samuel  T.  Coleridge        .     34 

Explanation,  An  ....  Waller  Learned  .  .  .  209 
Eyes  of  Black  and  Eyes  of  Blue 

(from  "The  Viceroy")    .      .  Harry  B.  Smith  .      .      .293 

Family  Fool,  The  .  .  .  William  Schwenck  Gilbert  160 
Fanny;  or.  The  Beauty  and  the 

Bee Charles  Mackay   ...     88 

Feminine  Arithmetic     .      .      .  Charles  Graham  Halpine  127 

Flight Charles  S.  Calverley        .    129 

Flower  of  Love  Lies  Bleeding, 

The Richard  Henry  Stoddard    116 

For  a  Fan Richard  Watson  Gilder    .    196 

Forfeits H.  C.  Biinner      .      .      .    265 

French  with  a  Master  .      .      .  Theodore  Tilton   .      .      -    152 

From  Three  Fly  Leaves     .      .  /.  A'.  Stephen       .      .      .   280 

Game  of  Fives,  A  .  .  .  Lewis  Carroll  .  .  .  135 
Garden  Fancies.    The  Flower's 

Name Robert  Browning  ...     89 

Gold  Room,  The.  An  Idyl  .  Bayard  Taylor  .  .  .118 
Grace's  Choice Charles  Battell  Loomis    .   305 

Handsomest    Man    in    the 

Room,  The William  Macquorn  Ran- 

kine 102 

Helen's  Face  a  Book    .      .      .  Gelett  Burgess       .      .      .322 

Heliotrope Harry  Thurston  Peck     .   266 

Henchman,  The       ....  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  .     76 

Her  Bonnet Mary  E.  Wilkins       .      .   307 

Her  Faults  (from  "The  Man- 
darin")        Harry  B.  Smith  .      .      .   295 

Her  Letter Francis  Bret  Harte   .      -   174 

[337  ] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


PAGE 

Her  Lips Walter  Savage  Landor    .     35 

Her  Neighbors Anonymous     .      .      .      .224 

Her  Valentine Richard  Hovey    .      .      .311 

How  Like  a  Woman     .      .      .  Caroline  and  Alice  Duer  .  330 

"I     Journeyed     South     to 
Meet  the  Spring"       .      .  Robert  Underwood  John- 
son    246 

I  Must  Come  Out  Next  Spring  Thomas  Haynes  Bayley  .     55 

I  Remember,  I  Remember  .  Phcebe  Cary  .  .  .  .115 
I'd  Be  a  Butterfly   ....    Thomas  Haynes  Bayley  .     54 

If James  Jeffrey  Roche  .      .   203 

If H.C.  Dodge  .     .      .      .231 

If  You  Want  a  Kiss,  Why,  Take 

It Anonymous     ....   220 

II  Bacio Paul  Verlaine       .      .      .   200 

In  For  It Somerville  Gibney      .      .    225 

In  Philistia Bliss  Carman       .      .      .   302 

In  Town Austin  Dobson      .      .      .181 

Indecision Anonymous     .      .      .      .217 

Infirm E.  S.  Martin  .      .      .      .273 

Interesting H.  C.  Bunner      .      .      .256 

Interlude,  An Algernon   Charles  Swin- 
burne       162 

Invitation,  An Theophile  Gautier     .      .     86 

Janet Richard  Watson  Gilder  .   195 

Justine,  You  Love  Me  Not  !  .  John  Godfrey  Saxe    .     .     98 

Kirtle  Red W.  H.  Bellemy    .     .     .227 

Kiss,  A — By  Mistake  .  .  .  Joel  Benton  ....  134 
Kissing's  No  Sin  ....  Anonymous  .  .  .  .223 
Kitty's  Summering .     .      .      .H.C.  Bunner      .      .     .264 

Lady  Mine Herbert  Edwin  Clarke    .   244 

Larks  and  Nightingales     .      .  Nathan  Haskell  Dole      .   242 

Last  Ditch,  The      ....£.  Nesbit 288 

Love  Me  Not  for  Comely  Grace  Anonymous  .  .  .  .  17 
Lawyer's  Invocation  to  Spring, 

The Henry  Howard  Brownell  104 

Leap- Year  Episode,  A       .      .  Eugene  Field  .      .      .      .236 

Lenten  Call,  A Hilda  Johnson  Wise       .  321 

L'Envoi E.  B.  Reed      ....  327 

[338] 


Index   of  Titles 


218 
106 


PAGE 

Letter  of  Advice,  A       .      .      .    Thomas  Hood,  Jr.     .      .149 

Lilian Alfred  Tennyson  .      .      -     75 

Lines  in  a  Young  Lady's  Album  Thomas  Hood      ...     60 

Logic Anonymous     .      .      .      .        " 

Loulou  and  Her  Cat     .      .      .   Frederick     Locker-Lamp- 

son 

Love Thomas  Hood      ...     63 

Love Charles  S.  Calverley        .    132 

Love  and  Age Thomas  L.  Peacock  .      .     46 

Love  Disposed  Of  ...      .   Robert  Traill  Spence  Low- 
ell      93 

Love  in  a  Cottage   ....   Nathaniel  Parker   Willis     71 
Love  in  the  Calendar   .      .      .   Robert  Underwood  John- 
son     247 

Love-Knot,  The      ....   Nora  Perry     .      .      .      .146 

Love  Test,  A Carl  Herlozssohn       .      .   229 

Lover's  Litany,  The     .      .      .   Rudyard  Kipling       .      .319 
Lunch,  The Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich   .   155 

Mabel,  in  New  Hampshire  .  James  Thomas  Fields  .  94 
Maid  of  Murray  Hill,  The  .  H.  C.  Bunner  .  .  .262 
Margaret  and  Dora  .  .  .  Thomas  Campbell  .  .  36 
Marjorie's  Kisses  ....  Walter  Learned  .  .  .  209 
Match,  A Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne       165 

Martial  in  London  ....   Mortimer  Collins        .      -    123 
Merry,  Blue- Eyed  Laddie,  A   .  Juliet  Wilbur  Tompkins  .   328 

Minuet,  The Mary  Mapes  Dodge  .      .168 

Miss  Nancy's  Gown  .  .  .  Zitella  Cooke  .  .  .  .210 
Mistaken  Moth,  The  .  .  .  Translated  from  Wegener  229 
Modern  Dialogue,  A  .  .  .  Oliver  Herford  .  .  .296 
Modern  Martyrdom,  A  .  .  Sam  Walter  Foss  .  .  275 
My  Aunt's  Spectre  ....  Mortimer  Collins  .  .121 
My  Grandmother's  Turkey- 
Tail  Fan Samuel  Minturn  Peck     .   249 

My  Love  and  My  Heart    .      .  Henry  S.  Leigh   .      .      .157 
My  Mistress's  Boots     .      .      .  Frederick     Locker-Lamp- 

son no 

My  Pretty  Neighbor     .      .      .    Translated  from  Wegener  230 
My  Wooing Edwin  Hatnilton       .      .   213 

Names Samuel  T.  Coleridge  .     .     34 

[339  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Nice  Correspondent  !     A 
Ninety-nine  in  the  Shade 

Oh,  Tell  Me  How  to  Woo 
Thee 

Old  CoUector,  The 

Old  Rhyme,  An       .      . 

Old  Sedan  Chair,  The 

On  a  Girdle 

On  a  Hymn  Book  . 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Miner- 
va   

On  Rereading  Telemaque 


PAGE 

Frederick     Locker-Lamp- 
son 112 

Rossiter  Johnson .      .      .190 


Pack  Clouds  Away 
Papillottes,  Les  . 
Paraphrase,  A    . 
Pet's  Punishment     . 
Phillida  and  Corydon 
Piccadilly 


Poem  of  Every  Day  Life,  A 
Poet's  Proposal,  The    . 
Protest,  The       .... 


Robert  Graham     . 
Beatrice  Hanscom, 
Anonymous     . 
Austin  Dohson 
Edmund  Waller    . 
W.  J.  Henderson 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  . 
James  Jeffrey  Roche  . 

Thomas  Heywood 
Gertrude  Hall 
Eugene  Field  .      .      .      . 
J.  Ashby-Sterry    . 
Nicholas  Breton  . 
Frederick     Locker-Lamp- 

son 

Albert  Riddle  .      .      .      . 
Oliver\Herford     . 
James  Russell  Lowell 


Question  and  Answer 


/.  K.  Stephen 


Races,  The George  Ellis 


Thomas  Moore 

James  Freeman  Clarke  . 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman 

James  Whitcomh  Riley 

Austin  Dobson 

H.  Savile  Clarke 


Reason,  Folly  and  Beauty 
Reminiscence,  A 
Rhyme  for  Priscilla,  A 
Ripest  Peach,  The  . 
"Roman  de  la  Rose,  Le" 
Romance  of  a  Glove,  The 

Rondeau Leigh  Hunt    . 

Rondel Jolin  Payne    . 

Rosalind's  Madrigal      .      .      .   Thomas  Lodge 

Rose,  A Arlo  Bates 

Rose,  The Anonymous 

Rosette Beranger    . 

Saint  May:  A  City  Lyric  .  /."  Ashby-Sterry 

[340] 


-  27 

-  285 

-  17 
.  186 
.     18 

-  252 

154 
205 

13 
309 
234 

173 
10 

107 

91 

299 

lOI 


281 

29 

41 

81 

283 

245 
188 

202 

45 
194 

5 

240 

216 

43 

171 


Ind 


ex   0 


i  Titl 


es 


Scherzo    

Sea,  The 

Send    Back   My   Long-Stray'd 

Eyes  to  Me 

Shall  I,  Wasting  in  Despair  . 
She  Is  So  Pretty  .... 
Sigh  No  More   (from   "Much 

Ado  About  Nothing")  .  . 
Since  W6  Parted  .... 
Sing  Heigh-Ho  !       .... 

Snowdrop 

Song 

Song 

Song 

Song,  A 

Song  from  "The  Duenna" 

Song  from  "Twelfth  Night"  . 
Song  of  the  Four  Seasons,  A  . 
Stolen  Fruit  . 
Story  of  the  Gate 
Strawberries 
Street  Sketch,  A 
Summer  Song,  A 
Sur  I'Herbe  . 


James  Russell  Lowell 
Eva  L.  Ogden 

John  Donne  . 
George  Wither 
Beranger    .      .      .      . 


William  Shakespeare 
Owen  Meredith     . 
Charles  Kingsley 
William  Wetmore  Story   . 
Sir  Charles  Sedley     _ 
John  Shaw     .... 
William  Cullen  Bryant    . 
Norman  R.  Gale 
Richard   Brinsley   Sheri- 
dan   

William  Shakespeare 
Austin  Dobson 
Leigh  Html    .      .     ^      . 
Harrison  Robertson   . 
Clinton  Scollard   . 
J.  Ashby-Sterry    . 
Mortimer  Collins 
Paul  Verlaine 


PAGE 

I  or 


12 

14 

44 

9 

134 

99 
100 
21 
38 
51 
308 

28 

9 
179 

45 
314 
290 
170 
120 
201 


Tea-Gown,  The 
Terrible  Infant,  A 


There's  a  Time  to  Be  Jolly     . 
Time  I've  Lost  in  Wooing,  The 
Time  of  Roses,  The 
Tiresome  Spring  !    .      .      .      . 
To  a  Country  Cousin   . 
To  Althea  (from  Prison)    . 

To  Anne 

To  Celia 

To  Celia       ...           .      . 
To  Helen 


To  Lady  Anne  Hamilton  . 

To  "Lydia  Languish" 

To  Minnie  (With  a  Hand  Glass) 

[34 


Eugene  Field  .... 

Frederick     Lockcr-Lamp- 

son 

Charles  Godfrey  Leland  . 
Thomas  Moore     . 
Jliomas  Hood 
Beranger    .      .      .     _      . 
Henry  S.  Leigh   . 
Richard  Lovelace 
William  Maxwell 
Ben  Jonson     .... 
E.  H.  Lacon  Watson  . 
Winthrop   Macktuorth 

Praed 64 

Hon.  William  R.  Spencer  32 
Austin  Dobson  .  .  .184 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson    .   241 

] 


232 

los 
114 

39 
62 

42 

158 

19 

51 

3 
225 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

PAGE 

To  Mistress  Pyrrha      .      .      .  Eugene  Field  .      .      .      .232 

To  Mrs.  Leigh  Upon  Her  Wed- 
ding Day George  Canning   ...     33 

To  My  Love Sir  John  Suckling     .      .     18 

To  Phoebe William  Schwenck  Gilbert  156 

To  the  Virgins  to  Make  Much 

of  Time Robert  Herrick     .      .      .15 

To  Violet.     With  a  Bunch  of 

Namesakes Robert  Cameron  Rogers   .   306 

Toujours  Amour      ....  Edmund    Clarence    Sted- 

man 143 

Trifle,  A Henry  Timrod     .      .      .128 

Truth Oliver  Her  ford    .      .      .299 

Two  Triolets Harrison  Robertson   .      .316 

Undowered Harriet    McEwen    Kim- 
ball   145 

Upon  Graciosa,  Walking  and 

Talking A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  .      .311 

Valentine James  Jeffrey  Roche  .  ,   206 

Valentine Edith  Matilda  Thomas  .   250 

Valentine,  A Lewis  Carroll        .      .  .    137 

Valentine,  A Laura  Elizabeth  Richards  251 

Vers  de  Societe        ....  H.  D.  Traill  .      .      .  .147 

Vignette,  A Caroline  Duer      .      .  .331 

Villanelle  of  His  Lady's  Treas- 
ures        Ernest  Dawson     .     .  .326 

Way  to  Arcady,  The      .     .  H.  C.  Bunner      .     .     .257 
Wedding  Day,  The       .     .      .  Edmund    Clarence    Sted- 

man 139 

What  Is  London's  Last  New 

Lion? Thojuas  Haynes  Bayly  .  53 

When  I  Loved  You      .      .      .    Thomas  Moore     ...  40 

When  I  Saw  You  Last,  Rose  .   Austift  Dobson      .      .      .  183 

When  Will  Love  Come?    .      .   Pakenham  Beatty       .      .  266 

White,  Pillared  Neck    .      .      .   Richard  Watson  Gilder  .  194 

Why  Don't  the  Men  Propose?  Thomas  Haynes  Bayly   .  57 

Wintry  Paris Anonymous     .      .      .      -  215 

Witch  in  the  Glass,  The    .      .  Sarah     Morgan     Bryant 

Piatt 156 

[  342  ] 


Index  of  Titles 


PAGE 

Witchcraft Edmund    Clarence    Sted- 

man 142 

Word  That  Makes  Us  Linger, 

A Frederick     Locker-Lamp- 

son 109 

Words,  Words,  Words        .      .  Margaret  Deland       .      .   273 


[  343  J 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


.345 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey  page 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva 154 

The  Lunch 155 

Allison,  Richard 

Cherry-Ripe 11 

Ashby-Sterry,  J. 

A  Street  Sketch 170 

Saint  May:     A  City  Lyric 171 

Pet  s  Punishment 173 

Austin,  Alfred 

At  the  Lattice 151 

Baker,  George  A. 

"Le  Dernier  Jour  d'un  Condamne" ii2 

Bates,  Arlo 

A  Rose 240 

Bayly,  Thomas  Haynes 

What  Is  London's  Last  New  Lion  ? 53 

I'd  Be  a  Butterfly 54 

I  Must  Come  Out  Next  Spring 55 

Why  Don't  the  Men  Propose? 57 

Beatty,  Pakenham 

When  Will  Love  Come? 266 

Beers,  Henry  Augustin 

Biftek  aux  Champignons 206 

Bellamy,  W.  H. 

Kirtle  Red 227 

Benton,  Joel 

A  Kiss — By  Mistake 134 

Beranger 

Tiresome  Spring  ! 42 

Rosette 43 

She  Is  So  Pretty 44 

BouRDiLLON,  Francis  William 

Caeli 244 

[  347  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Breton,  Nicholas  page 

Phillida  and  Corydon lo 

Brownell,  Henry  Howard 

The  Lawyer's  Invocation  to  Spring     .....    104 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 

Amy's  Cruelty 68 

Browning,  Robert 

Garden  Fancies.     The  Flower's  Name     ....     89 

Bryant,  William  Cullen 

Song 51 

Bunner,  H.  C. 

The  Ballade  of  the  Summer-Boarder 254 

Interesting 256 

The  Way  to  Arcady 257 

Da  Capo 260 

The  Maid  of  Murray  Hill 262 

Kitty's  Summering 264 

Forfeits 265 

Burgess,  Gelett 

Helen's  Face  a  Book 322 

Ballade  of  the  Devil-May-C^are 323 

The  Butterfly's  Madrigal 323 

Ballade  of  Dreams  Tr3.nsposed 325 

Burnett,  James  G. 

A  Bagatelle 228 


Calverley,  Charles  S. 

Flight 129 

Love 132 

Campbell,  Thomas 

Margaret  and  Dora 36 

Canning,  George 

To  Mrs.  Leigh  Upon  Her  Wedding  Day  -  •  •  ii 
Carman,  Bliss 

In  Philistia 302 

Carroll,  Lewis 

A  Game  of  Fives 13S 

A  Valentine i37 

Cary,  Phcebe 

I  Remember,  I  Remember iiS 

Clarke,  Herbert  Edwin 

Lady  Mine 244 

[348] 


Index  of  Authors 


Clarke,  H.  Savile  i"age 

The  Romance  of  a  Glove 202 

Clarke,  James  Freeman 

A  Reminiscence 81 

Coleridge,  Samuel  T. 

The  Exchange 34 

Names 34 

Collins,  Mortimer 

Comfort 119 

A  Summer  Song 120 

My  Aunt's  Spectre 121 

A  Conceit 122 

Martial  in  London 123 

Cone,  Helen  Gray 

The  Ballad  of  Cassandra  Brown 278 

Cooke,  Zitella 

Miss  Nancy's  Gown 210 

Deland,  Margaret 

Words,  Words,  Words 273 

The  Bluebell 274 

DoBSON,  Austin 

Avice 177 

A  Song  of  the  Four  Seasons i79 

In  Town 181 

When  I  Saw  You  Last,  Rose 183 

To  "Lydia  Languish"   . 184 

The  Old  Sedan  Chair 186 

"Le  Roman  de  la  Rose" 188 

Dodge,  H.  C. 

If 231 

DoDGi;,  Mary  Mapes 

The  Minuet 168 

Dole,  Nathan  Haskell 

Larks  and  Nightingales 242 

Donne,  John 

Send  Back  My  Long-Stray 'd  Eyes  to  Me      .      .     .     12 

DowsoN,  Ernest 

Villanelle  of  His  Lady's  Treasures 326 

DuER,  Caroline 

A  Vignette ii'^ 

Duer,  Caroline  and  Alice 

How  Like  a  Woman 330 

[349] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


Ellis,  George  page 

The  Races      .      ,      .      , 29 

Field,  Eugene 

The  Tea-Gown 232 

To  Mistress  Pyrrha 232 

A  Paraphrase 234 

A  Leap- Year  Episode 236 

Fields,  James  Thomas 

Mabel,  in  New  Hampshire 94 

Fitzgerald,  Edward 

Because 73 

Foss,  Sam  Walter 

A  Modern  Martyrdom 275 

Gale,  Norman  R. 

A  Song 308 

Gautier,  Theophile 

An  Invitation 86 

Gibney,  Somerville 

In  For  It 225 

Gilbert,  William  Schwenck 

To  Phoebe 156 

The  Family  Fool 160 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson 

White,  Pillared  Neck 194 

Janet 195 

For  a  Fan 196 

Graham,  Robert 

Oh,  Tell  Me  How  to  Woo  Thee 27 

Hall,  Gertrude 

Les  Papillottes 309 

Halpine,  Charles  Graham 

Feminine  Arithmetic 127 

Hamilton,  Edwin 

My  Wooing 213 

Hanscom,  Beatrice 

The  Old  Collector 285 

Harte,  Francis  Bret 

Her  Letter i74 

Henderson,  .W.  J. 

On  a  Hymn  Book 252 

[350] 


Index  of  Authors 


Henley,  W.  E.  page 

Ballade  of  Ladies'  Names 236 

Ballade  of  June 237 

Ballade  Made  in  the  Hot  Weather 238 

Herford,  Oliver 

A  Modern  Dialogue 296 

The  Poet's  Proposal 299 

Truth 299 

The  Bachelor  Girl 300 

Herlozssohn,  Carl 

A  Love  Test 229 

Herrick,  Robert 

To  the  Virgins  to  Make  Much  of  Time   .      .      .      .      15 
The  Bracelet 16 

Heywood,  Thomas 

Pack  Clouds  Away 13 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 

Dorothy  Q.     A  Family  Portrait 78 

Hood,  Thomas 

Lines  in  a  Young  Lady's  Album 60 

The  Time  of  Roses 62 

Love 63 

Hood,  Thomas,  Jr. 

A  Letter  of  Advice 149 

Hook,  Theodore 

Clubs 48 

HovEY,  Richard 

Her  Valentine 311 

HowELLS,  William  Dean 

Caprice 167 

Hunt,  Leigh 

Rondeau 45 

Stolen  Fruit 45 

Irving,  Washington 

A  Certain  Young  Lady 37 

Johnson,  Robert  Underwood 

Before  the  Blossom 246 

"I  Journeyed  South  to  Meet  the  Spring"      .      .      .  246 

Love  in  the  Calendar 247 

Johnson,  Rossiter 

Ninety-nine  in  the  Shade 190 

[351] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  A nthology 


JONSON,  Ben  page 

To  Celia 3 

Cupid 4 

Kimball,  Harriet  McEwen 

Undowered i45 

KiNGSLEY,  Charles 

Sing  Heigh-Ho  ! 99 

Kipling,  Rudyard 

Amour  de  Voyage 318 

The  Lover's  Litany 319 

Landor,  Walter  Savage 

Defiance 35 

Her  Lips 35 

Commination 36 

Lang,  Andrew 

Ballade  of  Summer 196 

Colinette 198 

Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies  (After  Villon)      .      .      .      .199 

Langbridge,  Frederick 

Courtship 292 

Learned,  Walter 

An  Explanation 209 

Marjorie's  Kisses 209 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard 

A  Ballade  of  Old  Sweethearts 317 

Leigh,  Henry  S. 

My  Love  and  My  Heart 157 

To  a  Country  Cousin 158 

Leland,  Charles  Godfrey 

There's  a  Time  to  Be  Jolly 114 

Levy,  Amy 

Between  the  Showers 304 

Lilly,  John 

Cupid  and  Campaspe .8 

Locker-Lampson,  Frederick 

A  Terrible  Infant loS 

Loulou  and  Her  Cat 106 

Piccadilly lo? 

A  Word  That  Makes  Us  Linger 109 

My  Mistress's  Boots no 

A  Nice  Correspondent!         112 

[  352  ] 


! 


Index  of  Authors 


Lodge,  Thomas  page 

Rosalind's  Madrigal 5 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth 

Beware  ! 70 

LooMis,  Charles  Battell 

Grace's  Choice 305 

Lovelace,  Richard 

To  Althea  (From  Prison) 19 

Lover,  Samuel 

Ask  and  Have 59 

Lowell,  James  Russell 

Scherzo loi 

The  Protest loi 

Lowell,  Robert  Traill  Spence 

Love  Disposed  Of 93 

LuDERS,  Charles  Henry 

A  Corsage  Bouquet 277 

Mackay,  Charles 

Fanny;  or,  The  Beauty  and  the  Bee 88 

Marks,  Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

Dance  Time 329 

Martin,  E.  S. 

Epithalamium 270 

Infirm 273 

Matthews,  Brander 

An  American  Girl 241 

Maxwell,  William 

To  Anne 51 

Meredith,  Owen 

Since  We  Parted 134 

Moore,  Thomas 

The  Time  I've  Lost  in  Wooing 39 

When  I  Loved  You 40 

Reason,  Folly  and  Beauty 41 

Morris,  Charles 

The  Contrast 24 

Nesbit,  E. 

The  Last  Ditch 288 

Ogden,  Eva  L. 

The  Sea 301 

[353  ] 


A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 


Payne,  John  page 

Rondel 194 

Peacock,  Thomas  L. 

Love  and  Age 46 

Peck,  Harry  Thurston 

Heliotrope 266 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn 

My  Grandmother's  Turkey-Tail  Fan  ....  249 
Perry,  Nora 

The  Love-Knot 146 

Piatt,  Sarah  Morgan  Bryan 

The  Witch  in  the  Glass 156 

Praed,  Winthrop  Mackworth 

The  Belle  of  the  Bail-Room 64 

To  Helen 64 

Prior,  Matthew  ^ 

Cupid  Mistaken 23 

Quiller-Couch,  a.  T. 

Upon  Graciosa,  Walking  and  Talking      .     .     .     .311 

Rankine,  William  Macquorn 

The  Handsomest  Man  in  the  Room 102 

Reed,  E.  B. 

L'Envoi 327 

Richards,  Laura  Elizabeth 

A  Valentine 251 

Riddle,  Albert 

A  Poem  of  Every-day  Life 91 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb 

The  Ripest  Peach 245 

Robertson,  Harrison 

Story  of  the  Gate 314 

Two  Triolets 316 

Roche,  James  Jeffrey 

If 203 

"Don't" 204 

On  Rereading  T61emaque 205 

Valentine 206 

Rogers,  Robert  Cameron 

To  Violet.  With  a  Bunch  of  Namesakes  .  .  .  306 
RossETTi,  Dante  Gabriel 

The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies 125 

[  354  ] 


Index  of  Authors 


Sawyer,  William  page 

The  Best  of  the  Ball 123 

Saxe,  John  Godfrey 

The  Coquette.     A  Portrait 96 

Justine,  You  Love  Me  Not  ! 98 

ScoLLARD,  Clinton 

Be  Ye  in  Love  with  April-Tide 289 

Strawberries 290 

Scott,  Clement 

Brighton  Pier 191 

A  Contradiction 192 

Sedley,  Sir  Charles 

Song 21 

Shakespeare,  William 

Sigh  No  More  (from  "Much  Ado  About  Nothing")       9 
Song  from  "Twelfth  Night" 9 

Shaw,  John 

Song 38 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley 

Song  from  "The  Duenna" 28 

Sherman,  Frank  Dempster 

A  Rhyme  for  Priscilla 283 

Smith,  Harry  B. 

Eyes  of  Black  and  Eyes  of  Blue  (from  "The  Viceroy  ")    293 
Her  Faults  (from  "the  Mandarin") 293 

Spencer,  Hon.  William  R. 

To  Lady  Anne  Hamilton 32 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 

The  Wedding  Day 139 

Edged  Tools 140 

Witchcraft 142 

Tou jours  Amour 143 

Stephen,  J.  K. 

From  Three  Fly  Leaves 280 

Question  and  Answer 281 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 

To  Minnie  (With  a  Hand  Glass) 241 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry 

The  Flower  of  Love  Lies  Bleeding 116 

Story,  William  Wetmore 

Snowdrop 100 

Suckling,  Sir  John 

To  My  Love 18 

[355  ] 


A   Vers  de  Societe  Anthoh 


gy 


Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles  page 

An  Interlude 162 

A  Match 165 

Sydney,  Sir  Philip 

A  Ditty 8 

Taylor,  Bay^ard 

The  Gold  Room.     An  Idyl 118 

Tennyson,  Alfred 

Lilian he 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace 

The  Age  of  Wisdom 82 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse 83 

Thomas,  Edith  Matilda 

Valentine 250 

Tiffany,  Esther  B. 

Applied  Astronomy 291 

TiLTON,  Theodore 

French  with  a  Master 152 

Timrod,  Henry 

A  Triee 128 

Tompkins,  Juliet  Wilbur 

A  Merry  Blue-Eyed  Laddie 328 

Traill,  H.  D. 

Vers  de  Societe 147 

Verlaine,  Paul 

II  Bacio 200 

Sur  I'Herbe 201 

ViELE,  Herman  Knickerbocker 

Borderland 269 

Villon,  Fran(;ois 

All  Things  Except  Myself  I  Know 6 

Waller,  Edmund 

On  a  Girdle 18 

Walsh,  William 

The  Despairing  Lover 22 

Watson,  E.  H.  Lacon 

To  Celia 225 

Webb,  Charles  Henry 

Dictum  Sapienti  .      .  .  .  ....   144 

[356] 


Index  of  Authors 


Wegener,  Translated  from  page 

The  Mistaken  Moth 229 

My  Pretty  Neighbor 230 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf 

The  Henchman 76 

WiLMNS,  Mary  E. 

Her  Bonnet 307 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker 

Love  in  a  Cottage 71 

Wise,  Hilda  Johnson 

A  Lenten  Call 321 

Wither,  George 

Shall  I,  Wasting  in  Despair 14 


[357] 


ANTHOLOGIES  BY  CAROLYN  WELLS 

Each  i6mo.         Leather,  $1.50  net.        Cloth,  $1.25  net 


'''•Carolyn  IVells  is  a  natural-born  humorist  as 
well  as  a  humorous  anthologist.  Anthologies  before 
Carolyn  IVells  took  to  making  them  were  grave 
and  formidable  things." — N.  Y.  Times  Review, 

A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology 

This  book,  the  fifth  In  Miss  Wells' 
popular  series  of  anthologies,  contains  the 
cream  of  that  department  of  verse  which 
can  be  described  adequately  only  by  the 
French  term,  "  Vers  de  Societe."  From 
Fran9ois  Villon  to  the  present  time  almost 
all  the  great  writers  are  represented. 
Miss  Wells  shows  again  her  anthological 
discretion  in  her  unerring  sense  for  the 
interesting  and  significant. 

A  Whimsey  Anthology 

"  It  is  a  book  for  a  blue  novel — being 
certain  to  counteract  it — and  it  is  a  book 
of  value  to  those  who  get  up  entertain- 
ments or  like  the  fantastic  in  literature." 
— From  the  Rochester  Democrat  and 
Chronicle. 


ANTHOLOGIES  BY  CAROLYN  WELLS 


1 


A  Satire  Anthology 

"  The  cream  of  rhymed  satire  from 
Aristophanes  to  Oliver  Herford.  Shows 
the  same  intelligence  and  good  taste  as 
her  preceding  volumes." — N.  Y.  Globe. 

A  Parody  Anthology 

"  Constructed  on  an  excellent  plan  and 
with  good  discretion,  rendering  it  an 
excellent  work  of  reference,  as  well  as  one 
of  entertainment." — Boston  Herald. 

A  Nonsense  Anthology 

"  Few  could  be  better  fitted  for  the  task 
than  one  whose  precept  and  verse  assure 
her  attitude  towards  this  important  depart- 
ment of  literature." 

— New  York  Evening  Post. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER^S  SONS,  Publishers 


DATE  DUE 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  US    A. 

liminn,M.™^'^'^'^fG"^'^ALLIB 


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